Wait For the Rain
by LookingBeyondTheEmbers
Summary: A noble family with strong ties to the monarchy is threatened. The soldiers are thrown into the action, and Porthos is forced to enter the cutthroat society of fame and wealth to protect those he cares about-and those he doesn't. From the dark alleys of the Court to elegant dining halls, Porthos learns that things aren't always what they seem. Rated T. Set between S1 and S2.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N:**_ Hello everyone! It has been so, soo long since I've been able to post anything here. Twenty-two credits hours a semester in college is not a joke. Anyways.

This is a brand new fic, and it centers around Porthos who has been severely neglected in my writings thus far. I've been focusing on Athos and d'Artagnan because I adore their relationship in the books and in the show, but I think it's time to switch and talk about Porthos. He's an amazing character with a lot of potential and I can't wait to start developing it. Hopefully, this turns out the way I imagine it will.

All mistakes are mine, as always. Any characters you recognize are not mine. (Any characters you don't are mine). All I have are student debts, please don't sue me.

If you read it and like it, great. If you like it enough to leave a review, that's even better. If you didn't like it but you still want to leave a review, that's fine too :).

Happy Holidays, everyone!

* * *

_"And the road leads to nowhere_

_And the castle stays the same_

_And the father tells the mother_

_Wait for the rain."_

_-David Hess_

* * *

The forest lay quiet. Twilight crept in through the cracks in the canopy and replaced the dying embers of sunset. The muted sound of horse hooves against the worn dirt path spiraled up into the air and back into silence as if they'd never been. Five dark riders moved swiftly through the gathering darkness. Every now and then, one of them would glance behind with a wary, desperate look as though they were being watched. Only the empty road greeted them.

Behind a tree several hundred yards up, Athos crouched without impatience. He glanced to his right where Aramis was hidden.

"The one in front is Garnier," he said quietly. "He's suspected in the attempted murder of a noble in the house de Lorraine. The rest are accomplices, all of whom have evaded arrest for months. We have orders to bring Garnier to Paris alive. He's to appear before the King for questioning."

"And the others?" Aramis murmured back.

Athos just gave him a flat, blank look. "His Majesty didn't say."

Giving one brief nod, the marksman pulled the pistols silently from their holsters. Athos looked to his left and saw Porthos and d'Artagnan shifting and getting ready to spring from their concealment. _Get ready, _he mouthed. They nodded tensely and waited for the inevitable.

The sound of hooves beating the ground came closer. Aramis closed his eyes briefly, sending out a silent, not-quite prayer. Just as the riders approached their hiding place, the four soldiers sprang into action.

Jumping out into the road, the musketeers stood shoulder to shoulder. Four pistols were fired with a single, dry retort.

Two of the approaching riders fell in crumpled heaps from their horses. The third received a ball through the shoulder and cried out with pain but continued. The other two were untouched and spurred their horses into a gallop. Athos tossed his spent pistol to the side and pulled his sword. His eyes widened as he realized the brigands had no intention of stopping.

Leaping to his left, he landed hard on the ground. The musketeer heard d'Artagnan grunt out a wheezing curse from his right as the Gascon followed suit. Aramis ran backwards and narrowly avoided being trampled. Porthos alone remained in the road, looking steadfastly at the leader through the whirlwind of dust.

The criminal's face was hidden by a hat with a wide brim, pulled down low. His frame was lean and the cloak he wore billowed behind him, masking his true size. The rider looked calm, but his horse's mouth was bloody from the cruel sawing of the bit. The poor beast shuddered and gasped with every step, hide flecked with white foam and lathered in sweat.

Porthos pulled his sword and quickly sidestepped in an agile movement that would have dropped jaws even in the musketeer garrison. Bringing the blade close, he sliced in an outwards motion and felt the tip of sword slice through the leather girth. The horse whinnied in pain and bolted. The hapless rider slid sideways off the horse and tumbled hard onto the ground. The saddle landed next to him with a dull thud.

The musketeer immediately advanced towards the man, who sprang to his feet and pulled his sword. Porthos pressed him with a flurry of attacks and the clashing of metal rent the air. The other musketeers ran towards their comrade, while the other three criminals had dismounted to contend with them.

The moments stretched into infinities, punctuated by heavy blows that jarred muscles and threatened lives. Athos disarmed his opponent and Aramis killed his by piercing him through in a quick motion. D'Artagnan was still fighting his, but Athos could see that the Gascon was skillfully handling the onslaught of blows coming towards him.

Porthos fought hard, sweat pouring down his face and feeling fatigue grow in his muscles. The leader seemed to be made of iron; he refused to yield. Redoubling his efforts, the musketeers attacked him ferociously. For a moment, he seemed to have an advantage as his opponent struggled. Then he adjusted and flew at the musketeer quickly.

Porthos bit back a cry of pain as the steel bit into his shoulder and another nick appeared on his left thigh. A third sting of pain in his side. A shot rang out, and a ball took Porthos' hat off his head and scraped across his temple, leaving a stinging track in its wake.

The criminal who had fired was lining up for a second shot when d'Artagnan tackled him and sent them both rolling on the ground. The Gascon punched every part of the bandit he could reach. Aramis rushed forward to help, but d'Artagnan cocked his fist and brought it down with all his might on the assailant's chin. The man went limp instantly.

Up the road several paces, Porthos blinked the blood out of his eye and lifted his exposed face towards Garnier, who instantly sprang back.

Under the low brim of the hat, the large musketeer could see the cold gleam of silvery eyes for a moment before the man began running as fast as he could. Porthos began running after him, but Garnier was much swifter. Before any of the musketeers had time to reload their pistols, the criminal had caught his horse, swung onto its bareback and galloped away with his hands knotted in the horse's mane.

Porthos stopped, his side aching and stinging. The blood rolled in thick drops from his various wounds.

"Damn it!" he yelled, looking at the retreating back of the criminal.

The other musketeers ran to his side. Aramis was pale as he reached Porthos, looking intently at the side of his face.

"It just grazed you," the medic said, unable to hide the relief in his voice.

"It's fine. I should have shot that bastard when I had the chance," the large musketeer replied angrily.

"Easy," d'Artagnan said, jogging over and brushing the dirt from his clothing. "It wasn't a total loss; the one that shot at you is just knocked out."

"We can bring him in for questioning, at least," Athos said, resigning himself to the hot look of resentment they would receive from the King, and the far more potent anger they would receive from Treville.

Aramis pulled a face like he knew exactly what the eldest musketeer was thinking, then glanced back to Porthos' face which had darkened with anger. He sighed, then stood straighter.

"Well, let's get back to Paris, then."

LINEBREAKLINEBREAKLINEBREALINEBREALINBEREALIN

Working together, they were able to construct a rough _travois_ and hauled the unconscious bandit back to Paris without incident. They carried the man into the garrison. Despite the hour, the torches were lit and the yard was occupied with roughly twenty soldiers cleaning arms, training, or talking quietly. With a sinking heart, d'Artagnan tried to ignore all the inquiring stares in his direction as he trudged up the stairs towards the Captain's office. Athos gave a quiet order to one of the lieutenants to have the criminal taken to the infirmary and kept under watch.

Treville stood up as soon as the door to his office opened. He didn't say anything for a moment, just eyed the men. His gaze lingered on Porthos as he noticed the various wounds, but his only reaction was one raised eyebrow.

"Report," he intoned sharply.

D'Artagnan winced.

"We apprehended them on the road towards Amiens," Athos began, naturally taking the role of leader.

"Four of the criminals were killed in battle. Garnier escaped," he said shortly, deciding brevity was the best course of action.

Treville's jaw tightened.

"You were given an order," he said, his voice quiet and controlled. "The King expects to question Garnier tomorrow morning and determine who is trying to kill the head of the de Lorraine house-"

"I take full responsibility, Captain. I was the closest to him," Porthos spoke up in a rough voice. His body ached, and his head felt fuzzy. All he wanted was to sleep for a night. Or for a year.

Treville looked at him again.

"Get to the infirmary," he said finally. "You're bleeding on my floor. We can discuss this tomorrow morning. I expect to see you all here directly after muster. Understood?"

They nodded hastily and shuffled out as fast as they could. Porthos stumbled a little over the threshold and Aramis caught him by the elbow in quick concern.

"Let's get you looked at," he said sympathetically.

D'Artagnan disappeared to the kitchens to ask for some clean water and a little food. Athos followed the other two to the infirmary.

Porthos was deposited carefully onto a cot and closed his eyes immediately. He was asleep and snoring before Aramis had finished bandaging the various wounds on his limbs.

Athos smiled ruefully as he looked at his companion.

"He must have been completely wiped out," he intoned dryly.

"It was a long day," Aramis said, scrubbing a hand across his eyes.

D'Artagnan quietly opened the door, laden with breads, cheeses and some smoked meats. The others accepted the food silently, nodding their thanks.

"How is he?" the Gascon asked, inclining his head towards the sleeping Porthos.

"He's alright. Just a few nicks, nothing that demands stitching. He'll be sore for a little while, is all. The bullet only grazed his temple," Aramis said, paling slightly at how close it had been.

"We should all get some sleep," d'Artagnan remarked quietly. "We have to be up in a few hours to make our excuses to the King."

Athos sighed but left without further word. The Gascon nodded to Aramis as he prepared to trudge back to his lodgings.

Left alone with his peacefully sleeping friend, Aramis took a moment to kiss the cross hanging around his neck and whisper thanks for the life spared.

LINEBREAKLINEBREAKLINEBREAKLINEBREAK

The sky slowly brightened in a gray, lifeless dawn. The four soldiers plodded to Treville's office and mounted the stairs without cheer.

However little the musketeers had slept, the Captain slept even less. Treville looked as exhausted as Porthos felt.

"How are you feeling?" he asked the large musketeer immediately.

"Fine, sir," he responded quickly, standing up straighter and ignoring the twinges of pain.

Treville nodded abstractedly. It was easy to see that his mind was on other things.

"I don't think I need to tell you four what yesterday meant," Treville started. "The one you took captive yesterday was questioned thoroughly; he stated he was ignorant of the affair. Nothing could induce him to speak."

Aramis sighed. "Looks like we'll have to do this the hard way."

"Garnier needs to be brought in," Athos agreed, sighing and leaning tiredly against the pale wall. "The other nobles in the house of de Lorraine are threatening to withdraw their resources and support to the Crown if we don't find the man responsible for the attempted murder of Gabrielle de Lorraine."

"She is the matriarch of the living members. If she falls, the cousins and related lesser family will quarrel over who claims authority and the integrity of the house will be lost," Aramis added, glancing back down at the scarred surface of the Captain's desk.

"Are we sure that Garnier is the prime suspect?" the Gascon asked. "It seems to me that any one of them could have done it…"

"He has the most to gain from Madame de Lorraine's death, and he has a criminal history," Treville said firmly. "The matriarch was given a piece of poisoned sillaby at a fete by a young servant."

"Poisoned candy?" d'Artagnan asked, screwing up his face. "That's pretty crude. Couldn't he have devised a better way to assassinate her?"

"The fete had multiple guards and security posted everywhere. Garnier couldn't be anywhere near it, yet we believe he's behind this attempt," Treville replied.

Porthos' brow creased slightly. Something about the situation didn't sit right.

"Luckily, Madame de Lorraine gave it to her personal aide because she doesn't care for sillaby; the servant isn't dead, but she's in critical condition," the Captain continued. "The dining staff was questioned, but they don't know anything at all about how or why it was poisoned."

There was a pause and silence fell over the room for a moment.

"We need a plan," Treville said, looking at the men one by one. "I've thought it over, and I think I have the solution."

"Aramis, Athos and d'Artagnan, you are to follow Garnier. Bring him in and stop him before he can finish what he's started."

"What about me?" Porthos spoke up, growing increasingly alarmed at the orders.

Treville sighed. "I've talked it over with the nobles, and they agree. You are to go to the estate de Lorraine and protect the matriarch."

"What?" Porthos demanded sharply. "Why?"

"With all due respect, sir, Porthos could be more useful on the road with us—" Aramis began.

"Garnier saw you," the Captain said. "According to your own account, he looked directly into your face. A man like that wouldn't easily forget. Just sending the three of you would be enough to cause suspicion, but after what happened last time with Vadim…"

His voice trailed off and the Gascon cast his gaze shamefully to the floor, rubbing the back of his head as he remembered how he had very nearly brought about the ruin of France's fortune.

"Porthos, you will guard the matriarch and serve as her aid. Keep your eyes and ears open, pay attention to everyone around her. The rest of the family may not even be aware that she's a target; she needs to keep it that way. If they were to find out, it could be construed as a weakness and someone else may take advantage of the situation."

"Captain—" Athos began.

"Enough!" Treville held up his hand, and real anger sparked in his eyes. "This is the best option for apprehending Garnier and stopping this whole damnable business. I'm sorry, but it's already been decided."

Aramis' jaw stuck out mutinously, and d'Artagnan looked upset. Porthos wished he could sink into the floor.

"I'll go and make our excuses to the King," Treville said, clearly preparing himself for the ordeal. "You are to leave within the hour. A servant named Caton is waiting to conduct you to the estates, Porthos. When you are ready, he will take you there."

Athos turned on his heel and exited after this obvious dismissal, and the other three soldiers followed him gloomily. Reaching the courtyard, they turned to face each other. Aramis and Porthos looked miserable, while d'Artagnan shoved his hands in his pockets dejectedly.

"We have our orders," Athos said hollowly, stone-faced with anger.

"It'll only be for a little while," Aramis said bracingly. "It can't take more than a few weeks to apprehend Garnier. When he's brought in, we'll all return."

They looked at each other disconsolately. Porthos' ears rang dully with the words as he realized he'd be separated from the others for the foreseeable future.

They embraced, then parted. Three soldiers walked away with straight backs, one stayed and watched them go, inseparable no more.

He dragged his feet over to the stables, where he met with a small, pale young man. "You're late," Caton said, with a sharp tone that belied his frame.

"Sorry," Porthos told him listlessly, and began saddling his horse.

"It's already been prepared for you, _monsieur_," the servant told him disdainfully.

Porthos looked to his right and saw a beautiful roan horse, already saddled and clearly packed for the journey. He didn't try to argue, only took a last look at his own animal watching him with large eyes.

"Alright."

Caton waited impatiently while he mounted, then set off at a gallop, leaving the garrison behind them in the early morning rain.


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N:**_ Hello everyone! HoLY crAP I am sorry about the wait between this chapter and the last one. Here it is! I hope it's enjoyable, the next one is currently in the works and should be published in a few days. Thanks for your patience. Prepare for more of Porthos being on his own and trying to work stuff out.

THANK YOU THANK YOU A MILLION TIMES THANK YOU to those who read and left a review on the first chapter! I'm eager to show you more :)

I feel that a warning should be issued here. This chapter (and the rest of the story) will contain period-typical racism and mentions of slavery/ forced servitude. I don't like it any more than you do, but I feel that it should be there to lend the story some authenticity. Still rated T for some adult themes and minor swearing.

Standard Disclaimer applies! All mistakes are mine, these wonderful characters are not!

Namaste.

* * *

Porthos rode silently, following Caton by a few paces. The gait of the horse jostled his injuries, but he couldn't bring himself to care. The man in front of him seemed to be entirely untouched by fatigue, hunger or thirst. They rode on.

Several hours later, when Porthos was almost ready to swallow his pride and ask for a break so he could have some water, the servant suddenly slowed then came to a halt.

"We're nearly there," he said. Something in his face softened, and Porthos looked at him sharply. The man was more comfortable. And why not? He was home.

The soldier swallowed hard and tried not to think about what he had to do.

"You will address Gabrielle de Lorraine as 'the Lady' or 'Madame', do you understand?" Caton asked suddenly. "You will not speak to anyone else in the manor unless spoken to first. In fact, I'd try to keep any speaking to a minimum. Your mannerisms are too rough and your speech too coarse to look natural; they would know immediately that you weren't trained to be Madame's personal aide," he added snidely.

Porthos bristled at each further insult but managed to keep silent.

"We'll have to get you some new clothes, teach you how to properly eat before you accompany her to dinner tonight," the servant added, almost talking to himself.

"I know how to eat," Porthos said.

"I very much doubt that," Caton replied, sounding smug. Then he sighed. "We should let Madame know that you are here."

He sounded as if he'd rather spend a month at the prison in Vincennes than be forced to bear the weight of Porthos' presence any longer.

The musketeer noticed that the man rode as far away as possible as if he were worried about being contaminated.

Porthos felt a strong dislike rise within his mind and suppressed it.

They rode over a hill, and the musketeer couldn't help the sharp intake of breath at the stunning view.

The estate was easily larger than the whole centre of Paris. The pastures and meadows stretched out in one free expanse as far as the eye could see. Instead of the gray skies dulling the color, it seemed to have the opposite effect and lent the entire place an air of charming seriousness that tempered the surreal land. Porthos looked on the great, green expanse, saw the horses running and felt an ache stir in his heart. The land was unbroken save for a single, shining stream snaking throughout.

It was the most beautiful place Porthos had ever seen.

"Well, don't just stand there," Caton snapped at him, obviously displeased. "I swear, they've sent me the village idiot."

Porthos battled with hot resentment and tore his gaze reluctantly from the glorious view.

Approaching the estate, he could see that the buildings of de Lorraine were practically their own settlement. There had to be around twenty houses and cozy buildings, all with gaudy matching architecture, mullioned windows and beautifully paved roads connecting throughout.

The servant led Porthos to one of the side buildings and opened the door. Porthos stepped into a large space that echoed with every step and he gazed around in wonder. The ceilings were high and vaulted, the rooms white and beautiful in simplicity. The only place he could compare it to was the _palais-royale_ back in Paris.

The pale young man stepped quickly through the space and took a left turn to a hallway. Throughout, there were doors upon doors, each opening to different rooms. Porthos lost count and tried to make his tired brain process all the information.

Finally, his guide stopped in front of a room with a beautifully carved wooden door and pushed it open. The room was stuffed with furniture yet didn't have the slightest impression of being crowded. A feather bed large enough to comfortably sleep six men was sitting in the middle of the room. Besides that were two large, expensive-looking desks, an enormous armoire, a table with exquisite gilt and several matching chairs dominated the left end of the room, while the right had a window with a wonderful view.

"I trust this will be to your liking?" Caton asked in an ironic tone after a moment.

Porthos stepped forward, suddenly feeling more than a little lost. He touched the feather bed, feeling the down cover beneath his rough fingers.

"It's a little cramped, but I can stand it," he forced a smile.

The sour, pinched look on the servant's face never varied.

"I'm going to get Madame and return in five minutes. Take the opportunity to change clothes. And for God's sake, do something about your hair," he added after a moment before shutting the door firmly after him.

Porthos stood in the middle of the room, feeling the enormity swallow him up. Then he squared his shoulders. Going over to the armoire, he pulled open the doors and was astonished to see that many fine cambric shirts were hung neatly in the closet. Remembering his earlier promise to Treville about keeping a low profile, he reluctantly pulled off his leathers. He looked at his pauldron for a long moment before setting it carefully at the back of the wardrobe.

He chose a soft shirt and a pair of trousers, then pulled off his cracked boots and replaced them with a supple leather pair in the armoire. The clothes fit like they'd been made for him especially. Maybe they had been.

He walked over to a large vanity and opened the top drawer. Finding a hairbrush, he attempted to tame the wild snarl of curls that dominated the top of his head. Eventually, he succeeded in subduing the mess somewhat and had just replaced the hairbrush when the door to his room opened.

The woman who walked in was old, probably around sixty or seventy if the musketeer had to hazard a guess. Despite her age, she walked with a grace few people achieved and an undeniable sense of power was exuded in every motion or gesture she made.

Her body was draped in expensive red clothing, designed to impress yet practical. Porthos noted that her boots were dusty, as though she had just come from riding.

He met her gaze as she came to a stop before him. She had a thin, sharp-looking face with keen, pale eyes that didn't miss anything. Just for a moment, she stared at him, judging him. The musketeer fought the urge to squirm as he felt her gaze rake up and down his body.

"Is this him?" she asked sharply, in a high clear voice.

"Yes, Madame," Caton said, tone dripping with disdain. Both spoke as if Porthos were not in the room.

"I am Madame de Lorraine," she said, looking directly at the musketeer again. "I'm sure you're aware of my…awkward predicament. I wish to keep the real reason for your employment a secret, I expect that you will abide by my wishes."

The words fell lightly like rain, but Porthos could hear the steel core behind them and fought a shiver. The support of her family was important to the King, and she knew exactly how much sway she held.

"Can you tell me anything more about the attempt…Madame?" he asked, adding the honorific after receiving a hard elbow to the side from the servant.

"I cannot," she admitted, not looking away from his gaze. "Garnier is an estranged relative—he was disgraced and excommunicated because of his illegal dealings with a gambling ring. His exploits were discovered when…certain funds were found missing."

Porthos felt the words snag in the back of his mind and carefully filed the moment away for later consideration. Something wasn't right here.

"Before he was cast out, he was in a position to inherit a great deal of both money and power at my passing. Due to a technicality in our laws, this is still true."

Her mouth twisted as she said these words. Porthos glanced at Caton and was taken aback by the deep look of smoldering anger in his eyes.

"That filth will never touch what is yours," the servant uttered aloud, each word filled with the venom of a thousand adders.

To his astonishment, Gabrielle's mouth turned up slightly at the corners and she almost smiled gently at the servant.

"I will attend a dinner party tonight. You will join me as my personal aide. I want you to watch everyone." The words were spoken with a resigned tone.

Porthos' temper rose. Madame de Lorraine turned to leave the room without uttering another word to him.

Caton walked by her side. The musketeer caught the words "uncouth" and "soldier" said quietly in undertones.

Porthos watched them stride away confidently, leaving him behind as if he was as insignificant as one of the pieces of furniture inside his mausoleum of a room.

"I didn't ask for this either!" he yelled after them, feeling the space of the room swallow him up.

Both turned to look at him. Caton's face had drained of color and his entire form registered shock and disbelief as if he couldn't believe someone had shouted at his employer.

Gabrielle, on the other hand, met his eyes with a steel gaze. Porthos' anger evaporated as he realized what he had just done, but he didn't break her stare.

"I knew they sent you for a reason," she said, and a real smile appeared on her lips for a moment, then disappeared. She turned on one heel and walked out of the room. Her boots echoed on the stone floor, and Caton smirked at him before following.

The rain that the sky had been holding back all morning finally let loose and fell unfettered onto the ground. The musketeer looked out the window gloomily and wondered what the hell he'd gotten himself into.

* * *

Refined music played on the air, passed through the atmosphere like the drinks on the serving plates. The low chatter of gentlemen was carried on the breeze through the enormous dining hall, and the clear laughter of the beautiful women answered them in perfect harmony.

The entire room was filled with a golden light that allowed everything to appear more lovely than it already was. The women swept gracefully across the dancing floor, led by handsome men.

Gabrielle de Lorraine strode into the room in a light, easy step that contrasted with her age. She was dressed in a resplendent purple tunic that came in closely to her hips and flared out from the sleeves and waist. Her hair fell in loose tresses down her back, black-streaked with silver and pleated simply around her brow. A large, teardrop gem came down to rest on her clavicle. She wasn't withered with age, she was vitality springing forth unheeded.

Porthos followed her, feeling hot and coarse as the eyes in the room swiveled towards him. He had dressed in a simply though tastefully embroidered dark gray tunic that was striking against the vibrant colors of the Lady. The bruises on his face and the bandage were glaringly obvious at this place of sophistication. The musketeer met their gazes and found most filled with cool curiosity. Some stared unabashedly at him, and he wondered what the Lady's last aide had looked like. Probably not like him.

Madame de Lorraine seemed oblivious to the attention and walked confidently past the dancing couples and entered towards the enormous dinner table. Gradually, the people lost themselves in the oily conversations of aristocrats once again. Porthos felt himself relax marginally, then began looking around at everything in earnest. He saw a woman's hair arc gracefully around her neck as her partner spun her, head tilted back to show the white flash of her throat. His mind filled with the shuffling of the crinolines on the polished floor, and the soft easy tones of the music.

The Lady was talking to some people in an easy manner, although Porthos thought he detected lines of tension in her lithe frame. She looked over to him and gestured with some impatience. He hurried to her side.

"This is Porthos, my new aide," she introduced him. Porthos found himself being stared at by the circle of people. Present were a man who looked older than the musketeer, a woman who was around his age, and two children, surprisingly. The man looked him up and down, surveying him coldly. His eyes lingered on the bandage on Porthos' brow.

"I am Isaac de Lorraine, Gabrielle's son-in-law," he said, reluctantly offering his hand. Porthos took it and squeezed. The man's mouth tightened around the corners and took his hand back with as much grace as possible.

"I see that you've hired more for brawn than for intelligence in this case, Gabrielle," he said lightly. "How are we to know that he's not simply on the security detail?"

His voice was slick and treacherous. His eyes were dark and betrayed nothing.

"He may surprise you," the Lady said with good grace, refusing to give in to the mockery. Porthos saw her hand twitch slightly, as though resisting the urge to fidget with something.

"My daughter, Julienne," Gabrielle said. Her voice softened as she looked at the young woman with undisguised tenderness.

Julienne de Lorraine stepped forward and looked at Porthos with eyes that were lively and bright blue, matching those of the old woman. She was clad in a tasteful blue dress that belted loosely around the waist and showed her slim figure. She had midnight black hair that flowed nearly to her hips, much like what the Lady's must have been years ago.

She presented her hand to him and curtsied. The musketeer took it carefully and kissed the top lightly, not breaking her stare. Isaac stiffened next to her and wrapped his arm around her waist possessively when the musketeer released her.

The two children stared at him with wide-open mouths, although the older boy tried to hide his amazement.

"My children, Leon and Talitha," Julienne said smoothly, patting the boy's head. Talitha was a wide-eyed, very young girl. Leon, who looked to be about eleven or twelve, seemed astounded at the musketeer's appearance.

"Are you a soldier? Where are you from? When did you get your ear pierced? Will you pierce mine? Are you_ grand-mere's_ lover?"

The questions came rapid-fire. Porthos didn't even register the last one until a moment later.

"Leon!" Julienne murmured, turning pale.

The boy was about to open his mouth again when a single, ringing tone of a bell filled the air.

"Dinner is ready to be served," Gabrielle said, effectively ushering them away from the awkward situation.

The Lady must have caught the look on his face because she offered him a rare, real smile.

"Relax," she whispered as they took their seats. "The food here is really quite good."

Porthos forced his features into a smile and looked down the table.

More food than he had ever seen was piled high on steaming, silver platters. Cups of wine were filled immediately and placed to the right of everyone present. The table was enormous, and almost everyone had some resemblance to Gabrielle.

Most of the people had the striking black hair and looked around with those piercing blue eyes. A few members of the party didn't, and they stuck out painfully as having married into the society they now inhabited.

An entire table of de Lorraines. It was enough to make anyone nervous. There was more power here than perhaps anywhere in France save for the Crown itself.

Porthos fought the unease rising inside him and grabbed the glass of wine on his side. He gulped the golden liquid quickly, feeling it slide smoothly down his throat and choke him with its cloying sweetness.

Across the room, dark-skinned men and women began carrying the trays and platters around to serve those sitting at the table. The musketeer stiffened.

Gabrielle saw the movement and bent to speak to him.

"They are employed in my service, similar to yourself. Control yourself and keep silent. Do not embarrass me further," she said, with a rigid smile plastered on her lips. Her voice was sharp and unforgiving.

Porthos swallowed the hot resentment in his throat and bobbed his head in jerky ascent.

The Lady leaned back to her seat, apparently set at ease. She immediately struck up a conversation with the person on her right, leaving the musketeer on his own again.

A small slip of a girl, hardly older than Leon, was serving the wine. She poured glasses to the older men who looked at her with hot glances that ill-concealed their intentions.

Porthos felt his rage rising again and smothered it with difficulty. His hands were shaking with anger, and he closed them into tight fists and laid them in his lap. When the girl reached his place, he thanked her quietly and reached for his refilled glass.

After a glare from Gabrielle, he put it down without taking a sip and concentrated on his food. He remembered the placement of the utensils and worked from the outside in, just as Caton had drilled into his head before the feast had begun.

Gabrielle was right; the food was incredible. Porthos had never tasted such rich, tender foods before. Even the meats seemed packed with flavor and delicately seasoned, so different from the coarse cooking he was used to in the garrison.

He ate heartily for the first three courses, then sat and idly picked at a single plate of food for the next nine courses of food that were brought continuously from the kitchens by the staff. When dessert was served, Porthos took a handful of candied nuts and savory fruits, putting them into his pocket almost automatically.

He concentrated on the conversations around him, trying to catch any snatch of malice or menacing intent. The words buzzed, and everyone seemed to be polished and unreal.

Each word concealed a double entendre, a threat, a promise, a deal. The oily discussions seemed to flow unconcernedly from one subject to another. It seemed that all of them spoke with forked tongues, praising in one breath and belittling in the next, promising then betraying.

It was impossible to tell what was real and what was only political speculation and idle chatter. Nevertheless, he kept his ears open and tried to catch names and remember the most important details of what he heard, no matter how insignificant it seemed.

By the end of the meal, Talitha was sleeping with her little head laid right on the table near Julienne, and Leon was looking bored.

Languidly and without urgency, some people began to finish their last glasses of the delicious, flaxen-colored wine and got up to wander back to their individual rooms. Julienne got up gracefully and picked up the still-sleeping Talitha.

"I'm afraid I must retire shortly," the Lady said. "Tomorrow morning's meeting will be quite early."

Julienne shifted her weight and readjusted the sleeping child in her arms.

"Is it alright if they stay with you tonight?" she asked Gabrielle.

"Of course, love. They are always welcome," the old woman said, smiling at the children with undisguised affection.

"Good night, everyone. Thank you for attending dinner," the Lady said, smiling again at everyone as they prepared to take their leave. This time the expression seemed a little strained.

"Good night," Isaac spoke up. He looked at Porthos as he said the words, and the musketeer stared back, challenging him.

The man broke his stare and chuckled. The smile did not meet his eyes.

Porthos could feel the man's cold gaze on him as he followed Gabrielle out of the dining hall.


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N: **_ Hello friends! I know I said I wouldn't post for a few days, but I started writing it and couldn't stop, thanks to the help of my younger sister. Not gonna lie, this one was painful to write and even worse to edit. I hope that I kept Porthos' character consistent, I feel like he would almost have to react this way.

Be ready for more soon, I'm getting into the groove now! :) I know it's only been like one day, but thanks to those who left reviews/favorited/followed! You wonderful people are the reason those here don't give up on their ideas.

Still rated T.

OCs=mine. Plot=mine. The musketeers=not mine.

Namaste.

* * *

Porthos was startled awake roughly two seconds after dawn by someone crashing through his doorway. Peering in the dim light, he saw the pale face and thin frame of Leon de Lorraine staring at him. Rolling over, he pushed his face into the pillow and groaned; the wine had left him with a splitting headache.

"Wake up," he heard the boy command.

"God, what time is it?" Porthos murmured back wearily, rolling back over and dragging a hand across his face.

"You've slept for long enough," Leon insisted, tugging at the footboard on his bed. "You work for the de Lorraines now, which means you work for me."

Porthos sat up in the bed quickly, taking the boy by surprise.

"No, I don't," he said simply, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

He got up and began pulling his clothes out of the wardrobe, hoping the boy would take the hint.

Porthos turned around to find Leon staring at him with wide eyes.

"Where did you get all those scars? Are you a mercenary?" he asked.

"No," Porthos answered shortly, starting to get annoyed.

"_Now_ will you pierce my ear?" Leon asked exasperatedly.

"_No_," Porthos said angrily. "Don't you have anyone else to bother?"

"You sound like Isaac," the boy muttered, hunching his shoulders up defensively.

"Fine way to talk, referring to your father by his first name," Porthos said, turning back to his wardrobe.

"Isaac isn't my father," Leon said, looking at the musketeer in confusion. Then his eyes hardened and made him look much older than his years.

"Not that it's any business of _yours_," he sniffed haughtily. "You're just a common soldier. I can tell you're not actually _grand_-_mere's_ new aide. The old one never talked to me. And she didn't know how to have fun, either."

The boy gave Porthos a sly, sideways grin that was equal parts mischief and good-humor. Porthos found his lips curving upwards in an answer despite himself.

The feeling was ruined when Leon surveyed the rest of the room and declared a moment later, "They've given you the worst room and the dingiest furniture, although I suppose it seems wonderful to you. If you're nice to me, I may be able to arrange something better for you."

"Get out of my room," Porthos said shortly, not able to tolerate the condescension a moment longer.

"You can't address me like that," Leon said, shocked. "I'll tell Isaac—"

"Then tell him," Porthos replied firmly. "But get the hell out of my room."

The boy's mouth closed with an audible click and he left without a word.

Porthos turned back to his armoire and resumed dressing, feeling like he'd just ruined his chances. Shoving the guilt away, he opened the door and quietly retraced his footsteps to a kitchen he'd noticed yesterday.

The sun was just peeking over the hills, and he took a moment to appreciate that view.

He caught sight of a door near the side of the room and pushed it open. Several servants were bustling around, already working despite the hour.

"I'm sorry, I'll wait until it's ready to be served," he apologized, and began hastily backing out of the door.

"No, _monsieur_!" one of the men cried, hurrying over. "The members of this house are welcome to eat whenever they wish, only give us a little time to prepare it, I beg of you."

"Really, it's no trouble," Porthos said, flushing darkly. "I only meant—"

"Please, _monsieur_," the young serving girl from the night before approached him with a platter of bread, cheese, fruit and meats.

"Take this to break your fast; our regular meal will be served in an hour or so. If this will be your preferred time for dining, we can accommodate—"

"No, that won't be necessary," the musketeer interrupted, embarrassed beyond all reason. "Don't treat me with any deference, please just continue your work. I don't require any special consideration."

"But you are the personal aide to the Lady herself, _monsieur_!" The girl wrung her hands in a gesture that made her seem even younger than her years, she suddenly looked remorseful that she'd begun addressing the soldier.

"Don't call me that," Porthos said gently. "My name is Porthos."

"Oh, no, _monsieur_. Please don't ask that of me," she said, eyes filling with tears.

"Hey, it's alright," he began, bewildered.

"Back to work, Sara," an older man with graying hair gently laid a hand on her shoulder and she hurried away, wiping her eyes.

"I didn't mean to—" Porthos began, guilt filling his mouth with a sour taste.

"_Monsieur_, I beg you, get out of this kitchen," the servant said, politely but firmly. "The longer you stay here, the greater the chance of someone seeing you. If any of the de Lorraines catch you speaking to us, all will be punished for it. Please, just go."

The servant pushed the plate of food into Porthos' stunned hands and fairly shoved him back out through the door.

Porthos heard the door slam behind him and trudged over to the large table, feeling lower and lower with each step.

Just as he sat down, the door to the kitchen swung open and the tiny frame of Talitha walked in rubbing her eyes.

She walked over to where the musketeer was seated and pulled on his sleeve.

"I'm hungry," she said imploringly.

"Does everyone get up this early?" Porthos murmured, digging at his food with a fork.

"Leon woke me up," she said, smoothing her hair back in a childish gesture.

"Me too," the musketeer admitted, looking at her.

"He said…he said that he ate all my desserts last night when I fell asleep and that I didn't get any because I was bad," she said, tears filled her large eyes.

Porthos stood up as a palpable wave of misery flowed over the room.

"Your brother is an ass," he said, digging in his pocket.

"What's an ass?" she asked innocently.

"Somebody who hurts other people and does stupid things to make themselves feel better," the musketeer replied. "Here, look."

He laid the candies and nuts he had taken from the night before onto the table.

"I saved your dessert for you. But eat that first, okay?" He pointed to the remains of his breakfast.

She looked up at him, adoration shining in her guileless blue eyes.

"You're my very best friend, right?" she asked, grabbing his hand.

Porthos smiled and touched her hair gently. "Sure."

_She probably says that to everyone_, a voice in his head intoned. Porthos couldn't make himself care. What the hell, he needed to hear it.

Another step sounded and Porthos looked up to see Gabrielle standing in the doorway.

"You're up very early, _Monsieur_ Porthos," she said, not sounding happy about it.

"So are you. Madame," he said, because he couldn't think of anything else to say.

"I always rise early," she replied, drifting over to the counter where a kettle of steaming water was waiting. "I appreciate the time before anyone else is awake."

Porthos felt the barbed words sink in.

"I was just leaving," he said, hastening to return to his room.

"Please be ready to depart in three hours," the Lady's voice intoned over his shoulder sounding weary and resigned already. "You will accompany me to a meeting this morning."

As Porthos stepped over the threshold, he heard Talitha's high voice behind him, "Look, _grand-mere_! Treats!"

* * *

Three hours later, Gabrielle de Lorraine knocked on his door, and escorted him to the carriage house. A groom and several horses were already saddled and waiting for them. Motioning to the musketeer, she mounted a bay gelding and waited for him to get into the saddle. Setting off at a gallop, the Lady quickly left him behind. Porthos stared after her in shock, then followed.

They rode for around fifteen minutes, until they reached a large, multi-floored building. Gabrielle pulled her horse up and let it walk at a steady pace.

Porthos' face must have shown his disbelief because her face twisted into a wry grin,

"I love riding fast. Do you?" she asked.

"Yes," the musketeer answered truthfully. "I was just wondering how the rest of the family felt about it."

Her smile faded as fast as it had come and the cold expression was back on her face. "It is some matter of contention for them. I can't please everyone," she said, spurring her horse so she led Porthos again.

The musketeer followed without further comment, feeling like he could have kicked himself.

"You won't be required to do anything at this meeting," she said. "It is simply expected that you will follow me since they all think you're my personal aide. I'm meeting with an old friend, one who I haven't spoken to in an unforgivably long time. Just don't say anything too ridiculous," she added.

"Yes, Madame," he said coldly, turning his gaze away.

She dismounted without looking back and walked into the building.

* * *

The meeting room turned out to be a beautifully ornate space, with gilt edging on the tables, chairs and walls. Light streamed in through the window and illuminated the coloring and accentuated the richness of the draping.

A fat man, obviously well-fed and with a jolly countenance stood up as she walked in and moved to greet them. A few large, friendly dogs followed and sniffed them happily.

"Gabrielle!" he cried, grabbing her hand in obvious delight.

"Georges," she said back, smiling warmly. "I apologize for the length of time between my last visit."

"A day later and I would have never forgiven you, my dear," Georges joked, pressing her hand again. "Truly!" he insisted after her dubious glance. "I would have become despondent and thrown myself into the nearest body of water!"

The Lady cast a wry glance towards a dish of water on the floor for the dogs. "Really," she said, unable to keep the irony from her tone.

Georges laughed heartily in an unrestrained manner.

"Still witty, as ever. And who is this?" he asked, taking note of Porthos for the first time.

"This is Porthos, my new personal aide," she said.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance," he said, pumping the musketeer's hand with vigor.

"Sit down, I beg you." He ushered them over to a sofa and practically forced them down onto it. Porthos noted the fine, soft texture and ran his fingertips over it for a moment.

Georges hurriedly paced the room, grabbing three glasses and a bottle of wine. He poured them all a glass of the ruby liquid and passed it to Porthos, who took a sip. It was delicious.

The man seated himself opposite to them and leaned back onto the lush cushioning.

"So, what can I do for you?" he asked merrily, looking comfortably at the two of them.

"I'm here to discuss the matter of the service," Gabrielle said, primly sipping at the wine.

"Ah, yes. Are more required?" he asked, a look of regret creasing his fat features.

"Not at the estate, but I was given this from His Majesty." She reached into a pouch carried at her waist and pulled out a folded parchment. Porthos recognized the official seal of the Crown before Georges took it.

"I see. Did he say why?" Georges asked quietly, becoming more subdued.

"His Majesty did not condescend to give me a reason beyond an incompetence in their service," the Lady admitted, looking regretful.

"He shall have more people by nightfall. I'll send a messenger immediately," Georges said, tucking the paper into his breast pocket.

"I am the coordinator for all of the servants and staff in the de Lorraine estate, as well as a heavy supplier for the King," Georges explained at Porthos' inquiring look. "His Majesty has requested that we send fifty extra servants to replace those formerly in his employ."

"And what happened to those who were formerly employed?" Porthos asked, feeling a cold block of ice sink into his stomach.

"Most likely, they will be executed, for fear of revealing some secret of the palace or the monarchy. Some will be released to the Court of Miracles to mingle with their kind," Georges said unconcernedly.

Porthos' fingers clenched around the glass and he forced himself to set it down before he broke it.

"Of course, only the well-trained ever have the opportunity to serve under a kind mistress like the Lady or a grand master like the King," he continued cheerfully.

"Of course," Porthos bit out. Bitterness stained his tone and suddenly he wished fiercely that he was with the others again.

Georges looked at him in shock while Madame de Lorraine's eyes blazed with fury at the disobedience.

"The servants are all well-treated, none of them are abused under our employ. They work to create a better situation and raise themselves from their surroundings. They are allowed to have families, to rear their children who will in turn rise even higher than their parents," Georges said in a confused tone.

"Just so long as they don't rise to actually acquire rights as free people, yes?" Porthos asked angrily. "They can rise so long as they stay beneath your boot."

"All of the servants have an equal opportunity to advance," Georges insisted. "We give them that chance."

Porthos stared at him. The man was either a liar or a perfect hypocrite.

"How many servants did you have to skin to cover this sofa?" he asked furiously.

"Good God, man," Georges replied, going pale. "Is it just that you can't hold your liquor, or are you an anarchist?"

"Porthos harbors some bewildering sentiments for those who are lucky enough to find employment with benefactors as gracious as myself," the Lady said vindictively, pale and trembling with rage.

"They're so lucky that if they're seen talking with anyone they'll be punished," Porthos said back, barely able to contain himself. "They're terrified of you, and of every de Lorraine they come across."

"Discipline is required to keep those of lower station in check, something you should understand," she said icily.

"I understand discipline, Madame. I also understand tyranny," he replied, getting up.

"I'll wait outside," he said, striding away without being excused.

Georges stared after him in amazement. When he was alone with the Lady, he broke the silence.

"Gabrielle, I really don't know where you manage to find them," he said, shaking his head.

"Sometimes I wonder myself," she said unsmiling. "Thank you for the wine, old friend. And for the company."

"You are always welcome, my dear," he said, rising and kissing her hand. "And he is welcome, as well. I should like to know him a little better."

"As would I," she said sardonically, before walking out gracefully.

Porthos waited by the horses, fuming silently.

"That was out of line and completely uncalled for," the Lady said, coming to stand in front of him. "You are exceedingly lucky that Georges was the only one to hear you. Had it been anyone else, I would be forced to dismiss you immediately to avoid suspicion. You _cannot_ speak to me that way."

"You heard him!" Porthos said, waving an arm at the grandeur behind him. "Speaking of human lives as if they were worthless—"

"You have formed some awfully strong opinions about politics for one who so recently arrived," she said archly. Porthos could hear the anger behind her tone.

"You don't understand what it's like, in the Court. At least if they were killed, it would be a quick death," he answered wearily.

The Lady looked at him inscrutably.

"Regardless of your personal feelings, I actually try to keep my servants all well-fed and comfortable," she said, anger draining away to be replaced by condescension. "There is much you don't understand about being in power."

"You're right," Porthos answered. "And there's a lot you don't understand about being hungry, in more than one way."

Her face didn't change, he could see that she didn't understand.

"Never mind," he said, turning away.

"I won't require your services until tomorrow morning. You have the rest of the day to yourself," she said before riding away from him.

Porthos waited until she rode out of sight before sighing. He spurred his horse on and followed, trying to outrun his mutinous thoughts.

* * *

The midafternoon sunshine streamed through the clouds and illuminated the grassy meadows. Butterflies flitted on the breeze and kissed the flowers. The water in the stream gurgled happily through the land and carried large fish through its clear passageways.

Porthos had decided to slip away and take a walk by himself, needing to clear his head. The landscape, instead of allowing him peace, had further depressed him by reminding him too strongly of what could never be his.

The grass was nearly as tall as he was, and fine like corn silk. He decided to lie down on a mat of it and look up at the azure sky. Clouds peacefully rolled past his vision and the heat from the sunshine made him drowsy. He was almost asleep when a soft footstep to his left startled him fully awake.

Remaining perfectly still, he waited for a moment, then heard another footstep. He got silently to his knees then crouched in place, ready for movement. To his shock, the footsteps came nearer, then stopped.

"Are you certain?" someone said urgently. Porthos recognized the tones of Isaac de Lorraine.

"Yes," an answering voice replied, this one unknown. "Our scouts report that Garnier is wounded, but he's nearby. You should be able to protect him from anything that is pursuing him."

"Good," Isaac said, sounding satisfied. "I trust that no one else is aware of this?"

"Only you, sire, and myself," the voice said.

"Very well," Isaac said. "Messengers of high quality are so hard to come by."

Porthos heard the _snick_ of metal against cloth and then a choked, horrid gurgling. The musketeer froze in confusion, then jumped as the body of the unfortunate messenger struck the ground, visible through the thin spots near the bottom of the grass.

The man's face was contorted in a grimace of pain, and the death rattle in his throat was audible for a moment. Then he lay still.

Porthos saw movement near the body and froze again, heart pounding fast. The fine boots of Isaac de Lorraine walked a little closer, to inspect the body. The musketeer closed his eyes and held his breath. Porthos waited silently for a few minutes, ears preternaturally keen in his apprehension.

He was about to move when the grass crunched scarcely four feet from his right ear and he turned to see the man peering down at the space in the meadow.


	4. Chapter 4

_**A/N:**_ I'm back! Guys, the craziest thing happened-I was visited by aliens! No, really! Back in March, they told me that while I was away at my college (which is surrounded by dense forest), the outside world was suffering from a plague. I didn't believe them at first, but since I lived at the college and didn't get to contact any part of the outside world, I couldn't fact check them. When I graduated, I found out they were right all along!

But really, I'm SO sorry for how absurdly long this took to update. Hope you like where the story is going, we've got some much-needed perspective from the other musketeers (finally), and the whumpage is gonna be pretty heavy for this and next chapter. Just saying. Still rated T for violence, racism, social hierarchies, light swearing and descriptions of some injuries. Ye have been warned.

All mistakes are mine. I don't have a Beta, which is good because they would have quit between now and the last five months ugh again I'm sorry.

No money exchanged hands, all I own is a digital copy of each season on Amazon Prime.

* * *

Isaac de Lorraine looked down intently into the meadow and was greeted with a clear view. A caterpillar munched single-mindedly on a blade of grass. Everything was as it should be and yet…He realized it with a start. The grass was pushed down and crushed as if someone had been crouched down spying. His mind whirled with paranoia. If they had heard what he had said, it could be the demise of all his plans.

For a moment, his face contorted into something ghastly, something dark without conscience or knowledge of mercy, then smoothed out again. He stood and strode carefully back towards the estate, only glancing backward once. Porthos felt his heart beating painfully in his chest, sprawled on the ground a scant twenty feet from where Isaac had looked. If he had glanced to his right, Porthos was fairly certain he would now be choking on his own slit throat. Sending up a quick prayer of thanks, something that made him remember Aramis with a pang, he carefully stuck his head out.

The meadow was silent, and the birds began singing again. The sun had long since passed overhead and was now heading towards the horizon. It would be dark soon. With a start, he realized that he would have to go quickly back to the estate and get a message to the musketeers.

Walking quickly but quietly, the answer came to him with startling ease. _Caton_. He could ask Madame's servant to get a message through to Treville and the musketeers. His footsteps were light, but his brow was creased in thought. How could he prove that the man was guilty? His troubled thoughts didn't stop as his feet carried him through the gates. He caught sight of several servants hurrying here and there in preparation for dinner and grimaced with distaste. Not knowing what else to do, he headed for the main seating room in his building.

When he got there, Caton was pacing the length of the room. He stopped short when he saw Porthos and his face turned red with rage.

"Where the _hell_ have you been?" he demanded furiously. "Madame has been questioning your whereabouts for the last twenty minutes! I was obliged to tell her, in the company of all the gentry, mind you, that I had no _idea_ where her useless, lazy—"

"Caton, listen to me," Porthos said, cutting off the man's diatribe. "This concerns the Lady's life. I think I know who's behind the attempts."

With wide eyes, the servant listened to his recounting of the events he had overheard between Isaac de Lorraine and the messenger. He nodded when the musketeer had finished, and his face showed his worries.

"I never trusted that one. There's always been a streak of meanness in him since he was a lad," Caton mused. "I'll get a message to Treville straight away. Hopefully, he'll be able to contact the other musketeers. For now, you've got to find Madame."

Porthos nodded. "Thank you, Caton."

The servant looked astonished for a moment, then brushed it off.

"Get going, you oaf, before she decides to fire you after all," he replied, but his tone was lacking any heat at all.

The musketeer smiled to himself as he hurried towards the main buildings, dodging around errant servants nimbly.

He strode through beautiful drawing rooms filled with people lounging and laughing, past empty hallways decorated with portraits of figures, long dead, and up staircases that spiraled into eternity. Finally, he burst into one of the lesser sitting rooms. Gabrielle was sitting still for once with a harp pulled close. Her fingers plucked flowing arpeggios gracefully and transitioned from chord to chord. When the musketeer stepped in, she immediately stopped playing and her eyes took on that look that Porthos recognized as anger and obstinance. He sighed inwardly.

"Where have you been?" she asked quietly.

"Walking in the north meadow," Porthos answered, aware of how foolish it sounded even to his own ears.

She sighed and took a deep breath.

"_Monsieur_ Porthos," she began. Porthos felt his own frustration rising and tried to check it.

"You are employed here for one reason, and that reason is not to challenge my every decision and criticize the entire institution of the upper class based on preconceived notions of personal slight. Is that clear?"

Venom laced every word, and it was clear in her voice that she resented everything he stood for.

Porthos stopped the angry retort on the tip of his tongue and spoke evenly.

"While I was there, I overheard something involving Isaac de Lorraine, Lady. It's about Garnier—"

The musketeer stopped talking as he heard footsteps approaching the room.

"What the devil are you—" she began.

"Shh!" he replied, forgetting for a moment who he was talking to, and gestured her towards the back of the room.

He quietly positioned himself to the right of the open doorway, pulling his dagger.

Gabrielle watched his steel flash in the light but didn't flinch away or show fear.

_She really is a remarkable woman,_ Porthos thought abstractedly. _I wonder what Athos would have thought of her. _

The steps ran closer to the room and a servant came rushing through, out of breath. Porthos quickly sheathed the dagger and stepped forward.

"Lady," the servant gasped out. "I've just come from Madame Julienne. She wanted me to inform you that her son, Leon has gone missing."

Porthos felt his stomach drop and his throat tightened with anxiety.

"Has she sent out search parties?" The Lady asked calmly. Her face didn't show any emotion except for a small tightening around her eyes.

"Yes, Madame," the servant replied, still panting. "They traced him to the Court of Miracles. All of them are refusing to go in. And if he should still be lost by night, Madame Julienne fears that—"

Gabrielle cut him off with a raised hand.

"I understand. Thank you for bringing this to my attention. Tell Julienne that I will rectify the situation immediately."

The servant bobbed quickly in a gesture of respect then ran back through the open door. The Lady turned towards Porthos, and he was shocked to see how _old_ she suddenly seemed.

"I need your help, Porthos," she said wearily. "I'm beginning to realize what you've done for me, and I owe you an apology. For now, we all require your services. Leon will never survive on his own come nightfall. I need you to go and collect him. Please bring him back here safely. We'll talk afterward, but please. Bring him back."

Her bright blues bored into his. Porthos nodded silently.

"I will, Lady. Don't worry," he said, before leaving the room at a run.

* * *

The Court's streets were not quite abandoned, but the shadows were much more plentiful than the poor souls Porthos saw lining the cobblestones. An old crone sat in a squalid alleyway, counting filthy buttons over and over.

A few men sat in a half-circle, kneeling close to the ground and playing a game of Piquet. Porthos hurried past their muttered musings about the points. He recognized the look of the men. That game was apt to become violent.

He moved quickly, aware of his expensive clothing and boots. Many of the figures fled deeper into the shadows as his steps approached. The rats scattered in a similar fashion.

Porthos fought the urge to gag as he passed a pile of half-decayed fish innards lying on the street corner. Swollen bottleflies buzzed sluggishly around their feast, and he waved them away from his face. Bites from them could very well mean disease or death.

A flicker of movement, darker than the shadows, caught his eye down a particularly narrow alleyway to his left.

Without a moment's hesitation, Porthos followed his instincts and plunged after it. The footsteps echoed and thundered off the grimy walls of the alleyway and would have left anyone else completely baffled. Porthos knew exactly how to pinpoint the real sound, he had been running through these streets since he was a child. He rounded a corner and found that his mental map was just as accurate as it had been when he was twelve years old. He neatly dodged a few bricks lying near his feet and made a sharp left hairpin turn. Despite his speed, he calmly thought about the upcoming steps. The mystery figure was fast, but was obviously flagging. Up ahead there was an old apothecary building where the windows had been broken out and many men played Last Chance, a suicide game inside the crumbling edifice. Next to that, a dusty old fountain filled with spiders, and a dead end.

The figure sprinted towards the last alleyway, leading to the dead end. That narrowed Porthos' options. It was either someone who didn't know the streets very well or someone who didn't care much what happened to them. They were often the most dangerous.

The musketeer grimly picked up speed once more and stood in the entranceway as the figure gave a cry of dismay at finding the brick wall in front of him. The sound was very young in the ominous silence of the Court, and Porthos knew immediately that he had been right.

Leon was shaking, half-blind and afraid of the thing chasing him. He tried to bolt around and escape, but Porthos was to fast for him. Grasping the boy by the arms, the young de Lorraine struggled violently.

"Let me go!" he shouted, striking out with his small fists and trying to hit every inch of his assailant he could reach.

"Leon, stop!" Porthos commanded, keeping his voice down. Shouting would attract unwanted attention, and that could be more dangerous. "Look at me!"

He struck a match against the rough stone walls, and in the momentary light, Leon saw the musketeer's serious face through the darkness.

"Porthos," the boy breathed, relaxing in his grasp. "I thought there was a monster chasing me."

"There could have been," the musketeer said seriously. "What do you think you were doing walking around the Court at this hour?"

"I heard the servant's talking about a festival of some sort that was supposed to happen tonight," Leon said in a small voice. "I wanted to go to see what it was like. The parties at my house are always so dull, there's no one to talk to and everyone just tells me to run along. I just wanted to have a little fun."

The boy sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve. The night was beginning to get cold.

Porthos sighed, touching the boy's shoulder lightly. "It's not that simple, Leon," he said as gently as he could.

Leon's eyes flashed with anger. "Why not?" he demanded. "People treat me worse than they treat you, at least you have a purpose! I didn't ask for all of them to hate me just because I was born a de Lorraine!"

"None of us asked to be born the way we are," Porthos answered, leading him out of the alleyway. "Don't feel sorry for yourself. Make do."

The boy was sullenly contemplating his words when they reached the last corner.

The moon and stars were a little closer now, and Porthos could hear things scuttling in the darkness. His jaw set. He had spent a good deal of his life choosing when to run and hide. He wouldn't run now.

The musketeer stopped and turned the boy towards him.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, eyeing the boy. Now that the silvery light of the stars washed over him, the musketeer could see signs of a nosebleed and a black eye. His expensive overcoat was gone, and his clothes were ripped.

"I was jumped, and my coat was stolen," Leon said, sounding a little angry again.

"Ouch," Porthos winced, looking at his blackened eye. "How many were there?"

"Just one," Leon said, flushing a little. "I don't even care about the coat," he continued defiantly.

"Did you have any money?" Porthos asked. The boy nodded.

"A little, but it doesn't matter. I can always get more. Oh, no!" he suddenly moaned. "I had a picture of my father in the pocket, with my mother and Tally in it. It was the only one I ever had of him."

His face was a study in misery and the musketeer regarded him seriously for a moment.

"Let's take a walk," Porthos said abruptly, leading him down a street, scanning for piles of garbage. "I bet we could find it. It'll be ditched nearby, probably in a rubbish pile. The money will be gone, but the picture wouldn't have been valuable enough to take."

"What if someone tries to rob us again?" the boy asked, looking fearful.

"It's alright, you're with me," Porthos said, smiling slightly. "Besides, you're safe now. You've got nothing left to steal."

Leon made a face at that but trailed slightly behind the musketeer.

Porthos' eyes searched out keenly in the piles of rubbish, searching for the glint of fabric he knew he would find.

Down another street, he caught sight of it.

"My coat!" Leon cried, running towards the pile of trash. It was sitting atop the foul-smelling heap. He turned towards Porthos in amazement.

"How did you know it would be here?" he asked in an awed tone of voice.

"Because that's what I used to do when I was a cutpurse," the musketeer replied, sounding like he was trying not to laugh.

Leon's jaw dropped open, then rummaged through the pockets. The money was gone, as expected, but the picture was still there, folded carefully into the inside. His eyes filled with tears of relief and gratitude as he looked at the smiling faces. He folded it carefully with his grimy hands and looked up at the musketeer again.

"Thank you," he said humbly. Porthos smiled again, although it was a little strained this time.

"Don't mention it," he replied, sticking his hands in his pockets. The cold wind was beginning to pick up.

Leon made to throw the jacket back onto the garbage pile, but Porthos caught it out the air before it could land again.

"What are you doing? It's dirty," Leon said, reverting to his snobbish manner.

"So are you," Porthos answered simply, folding the jacket over his arm. They began walking back towards the main street through the labyrinthian back alleys. A small girl not much older than Leon was digging through another rubbish pile searching for scraps.

The musketeer lightly tossed the jacket to the ground in front of her and she picked it up and ran away quickly, without even a glance back in case they had changed their minds.

"That's not enough to keep her warm," Leon said, dismayed.

"That's all she has," Porthos said quietly. Leon's young face was troubled, and he didn't say any more as he followed the musketeer through the filthy streets.

They had almost made it through the Court when a lurching figure swung out from a doorway and clutched at Leon's arm with bony, sore-covered fingers.

"Spare a _pistole_ for a dead man," the voice said in a horrible, gritty voice.

Leon screamed and tried to pull away.

The man's face appeared in harsh black and white lines contrasted with the starlight. Weeping, infected sores covered the man's face and neck. Both eyes were nearly swollen shut, and Porthos could almost feel the fever rolling off him in great, sick waves. It was a wonder the homeless man had even seen them, even more of a wonder that he was able to remain upright.

This observation took less than a second, and Porthos was moving forward in a single, smooth line. His hand reached forward and twisted the man's hot hand underneath his own. The brittle bones snapped with an audible crack and then the man pulled away quickly and was wailing from the darkness with a kind of bewildered hurt.

"Move," Porthos ordered, giving Leon a little shove forward.

The boy hurried forward, trembling all over and white-faced. Nothing more was said as they made their way through the Court.

* * *

Guards were standing in front of the estate gates, but silently moved when they saw Leon de Lorraine walking in front of Porthos. They passed without incident, and Leon walked slowly towards the main building. The main building was even lovelier at night, all lit up with a thousand lamps and candles which played on every surface.

Their footsteps echoed over the marble floors, and they were greeted by the entire family of de Lorraines. Julienne came first, followed closely by a running Talitha who threw herself at her older brother. Gabrielle hung slightly back, and Isaac stood near her.

Porthos stopped as Leon stepped forward and submitted himself to the embraces of his mother and younger sister.

"Tally, stop it," he said with no real anger in his voice as she tried to poke his bruised eye.

"Oh, Leon, you're hurt," Julienne said, fussing over the dried blood from his nose.

"Not much," he replied, looking back at Porthos. "He saved me."

"Does sneaking off seem like such a good idea now?" Isaac asked in an oily, righteous tone from behind him. Porthos saw Leon's shoulders tighten with tension and felt it himself.

"Not right now," Julienne murmured, looking back at her husband with reproach. He seemed undeterred and continued glaring at the boy. Leon's face shut out emotion and tightened up, making him look much older.

"I'm tired, I think I'll go to bed," he announced, moving before he had even been dismissed.

"Not yet, you won't," Isaac said, grabbing the boy's upper arm in a grip strong enough to bruise. Porthos caught the small indicator of pain in the boy's posture before he tried to pull away from the man.

"That's enough," the Lady said softly, looking at Isaac directly with her cold blue eyes.

He stared her down for a moment. When she didn't flinch, he made a scoffing noise in the back of his throat and thrust Leon's arm away from his hand.

Talitha hurried after her brother, all sleepiness forgotten despite the late hour.

"Leon, you smell bad," was the last words they heard drifted from around the corner and a muttered, "Shut up, Tally."

Julienne hid a small smile with the back of her hand.

"Thank you for bringing him back to us safely," she said fervently, grabbing Porthos' hand impulsively. "I don't know how I can thank you."

"It was nothing, Madame," Porthos said quickly, very aware of Isaac's burning, furious gaze on him.

"No, really," she insisted. "It means more than I—we can say."

"_Monsieur_ Porthos was simply following my orders," Gabrielle interjected smoothly. "I sent him to go retrieve Leon. Now I have no more need of his services tonight and he can retire to his own quarters."

Porthos looked up at the almost imperceptible emphasis on the last three words of her statement and nodded as though nothing had happened. He bowed to Julienne and the fuming Isaac then hurried away as fast as was socially acceptable.

Instead of heading to his room, he unobtrusively struck out for the Lady's rooms. Entering, he found Caton quietly contemplating the moon's silvery surface through the window. He turned, then relaxed as he saw the musketeer.

"Good to see you back safely," Caton said with something like approval. "Did you run into any trouble getting the young master de Lorraine back safely?"

"Not too much," Porthos answered, shutting out thoughts of the diseased man.

At that moment, the Lady walked into her rooms.

"I knew you'd catch on," she said, sounding pleased. "Thank you for bringing my grandson back safely from that godforsaken place. Tell me what you saw this afternoon in the meadow."

Without preamble, Porthos again gave a quick summary of the events that had happened. Gabrielle's face didn't change throughout the story, and only raised an eyebrow when Caton took it up.

"The messenger has conveyed the information to Treville," Caton stated, looking at both of them. "He's been made aware of the situation, and said that you should continue your vigilance,"

"Did he say anything about the others?" Porthos asked, trying not to sound too eager. It was clear how much his brothers meant to him.

"No, he didn't," Caton said, sounded genuinely sorry. The musketeer nodded, carefully hiding the sharp stab of disappointment.

The Lady looked at him sharply.

"It's been a long day," she said finally. "Get some rest. Tomorrow morning, we'll figure out what to do about all this."

"Yes, Madame," Caton said and bowed deeply before taking his leave.

"I'm sure the others are fine," Gabrielle said quietly.

Porthos forced a smile to his face.

"I hope so. Thank you, Lady," he said, bowing as Caton had. He turned on his heel and didn't look back.

He took off his boots, too tired to strip off anything else, and fell onto his bed. His last thought before falling asleep was to wonder where his brothers were.

* * *

Aramis huddled miserably around their tiny fire and sighed quietly. It had been raining for most of the night and trickled on into the morning. Now it was freezing, and all the blankets were soaked through. D'Artagnan and Athos looked just as unhappy, but nobody voiced their discomfort.

"We made good time," Athos said finally, voice rough with sleep and disuse. "We should be able to make it to Garnier's last known location by midmorning."

"Great," Aramis said tonelessly. He hadn't meant for it to sound so sarcastic and winced. He could have kicked himself when he saw the look of weary frustration in Athos' face.

"I'm sorry," he said, scrubbing a hand over his face. "I don't know why I said that."

"I miss him too," d'Artagnan said quietly, ducking his head down and staring at the smoldering flames.

Athos was stone-faced and silent.

"The sooner we take down this bastard, the sooner this mission will be over," Aramis said bracingly, trying to sound encouraging. Nobody answered him.

They packed up their gear in near silence and saddled their horses. D'Artagnan kicked some of the wet dirt over the fire and extinguished the meager heat source immediately.

They rode for nearly two hours in silence, lost in their own morose thoughts. Suddenly, Athos pulled his horse up short. The others followed suit.

"What is it?" Aramis asked, scenting danger.

"We're nearly to the cottage where he was last seen," Athos said quietly. "It's just through this next pass of forest, I think we should walk from here. Keep the horses close but move softly."

They nodded and swiftly dismounted, walking quietly across the carpet of pine needles on the forest floor.

They had no idea they were walking into a trap.

Athos led them to the edge of the meadow, peeked from behind a pine tree. The cottage lay still in the morning. The birds were silent, giving the place a surreal, ominous feeling.

"I'll take point. D'Artagnan, come in close behind me." Athos' battle plan was short but to the point. He pulled his pistol and motioned towards Aramis. "You hang a little farther back in case one decides to run. We may need you to catch him."

The handsome musketeer nodded his understanding and pulled his own pistol. The handle was cold in his grip and felt clammy. For the first time, a nagging doubt brushed his mind. He frowned.

Instinct was something you quickly learned not to ignore when you were a musketeer.

"Aramis?" d'Artagnan asked, catching his mood. Athos looked back at him questioningly.

"Nothing," he said quickly. "I'm ready."

The eldest musketeer nodded once then turned and ran for the front door. D'Artagnan followed him quickly, and Aramis hung back a little.

Athos kicked open the front door and immediately d'Artagnan was at his shoulder, pointing to the right while his brother pointed to the left with their pistols. The inside of the cabin was dark and quiet. The windows were shuttered, and little light penetrated the interior.

Athos squinted towards where the shadows were the darkest for a moment, tension high. From the darkest depths, he caught the glint of a metal gun barrel.

"Get down!" he shouted, pushing d'Artagnan away from him.

The pistol shot rang out and was deafening in the small space. Through the high-pitched ringing in his ears, d'Artagnan heard another man's voice shouting although he couldn't make out the words.

Athos ducked a mere second before the bullet obliterated the doorframe behind him. Athos shot quickly and was rewarded with a sharp cry of pain before another pistol roared from a different direction. This one was aimed at d'Artagnan but went wide when the Gascon jumped to his left.

"It's an ambush!" Aramis yelled, popping both his head and his pistol through the doorframe in a well-aimed shot that felled one of their attackers.

D'Artagnan pelted through the doorway, and Athos followed after firing again. Aramis glanced around quickly, running after. As they ran back for the cover of the woods, something hard and white-hot with pain struck Aramis squarely in the small of the back. He didn't give a cry before falling onto his chest.

"Aramis!" Athos shouted as more shots rang out around them. D'Artagnan turned with a look of panic and pistol drawn.

The medic looked up at his brother through the wavering gray lines in his vision and tried to crawl towards him. The movement caused his whole body to stiffen with pain and he cried out once. Athos ran back to him and felt a bullet's hot path graze his own shoulder with fire before another took his hat off. He slid to his knees. "Can you walk?" he asked urgently.

There was a break in the fire now; they were reloading. "I'm alright," Aramis managed to gasp out, before stumbling up to his feet with Athos' help. The eldest musketeer slung his wounded brother's arm over his shoulder and went as fast as he could.

D'Artagnan was covering them and took his remaining shot at one of the bandits. Tucking it back into his belt with his left hand, he pulled his knife out of the holster with his right. Aiming carefully, he threw it in a graceful spinning arc. Despite the distance and the danger, the blade flew true and buried itself in the criminal's throat. As Athos hurried past with Aramis, the Gascon lingered for a second to cover them, then took to his heels and ran after his brothers.

While they ran back into the forest, they could hear their assailants crashing through the underbrush behind them.

"This way!" Athos whispered fiercely, pulling sharply to the left. D'Artagnan grabbed his brother's other arm and pulled it over his shoulder, helping to drag the man towards cover. Athos led them quickly to a bit of overgrown sawgrass and pulled them down sharply.

The thick underbrush covered them immediately, and the Gascon winced as the sharp blades of grass sliced his hands and face as he ducked down. Athos lowered Aramis to the ground as carefully as he could under the circumstances and released him. The footsteps of their assailants pounded past them and faded into the distance.

Aramis blinked rapidly and felt cold sweat dripping down his face. His back gave an agonizing twinge and his body tensed as if galvanized before going slack into unconsciousness.

"Aramis!" d'Artagnan hissed, slapping his face. The medic's respiration was rapid and light, his face grey. The Gascon looked up at Athos, whose shoulder was still bleeding freely.

"We've got to get out of here," he said urgently, pale face serious.

"How the hell did they know we were coming?" the Gascon asked angrily, helping hoist Aramis up as they limped back towards their horses.

"Garnier wasn't there," Athos answered, wincing with every step. "He's already moved. They probably knew our information was outdated. Which means he's closer to Porthos now."

D'Artagnan had no answer to that and tried to banish his traitorous thoughts as they raced from their deaths.


	5. Chapter 5

_**A/N:**_ Hey, all! A thousand thanks to those who read/followed/favorited/reviewed the last chapter! I was so nervous about starting this story back up again because I've been away for so long, but a certain review reassured me that it was okay *cough* **pallysd'Artagnan** *cough*. Seriously, that's one of the nicest reviews I've ever gotten, thank you :)

Anyways, we're winding down towards the end now. The next chapter is written but needs to be looked over before it gets posted. Hope you like it, there's some more action here. Let me know what you think!

_Rated T because of swearing and references of some people deciding to do the no-pants-dance at the end of this chapter, but nothing explicit I promise. _

**DISCLAIMER:** Despite ardent and repeated requests, BBC has refused to grant me ownership of the show. I'd ask Alexandre Dumas, but he's kinda, you know, dead.

* * *

Aramis came to slowly, with a muddled sense of where and who he was. He wasn't wholly aware of anything when he opened his eyes. Fuzzy, out-of-focus shapes moved above him and one of them spoke. He realized he was lying on his stomach on something hard and unyielding. The texture felt rough beneath his numb fingers. Wood.

"Athos, I think he's waking up."

Aramis tried to blink away the fuzziness and was rewarded with a dizzy feeling. He reached out with drunken reflexes to grip the edges of the table so he couldn't tilt off the damn thing. Why was it moving so much?

"Aramis? Can you hear me?" This voice was deeper, and another blurry shape moved in his line of vision.

The musketeer struggled to focus on it but became aware of an itching sensation on his back. Moving slightly, the itching turned to blinding agony. He jerked in pain, tears springing unbidden to his eyes.

"We haven't gotten the bullet out yet," the voice continued. "We're back at the garrison. Do you want us to knock you out?"

Aramis took a long moment to process the words ringing through a dark tunnel at him.

"No," he slurred. "Wan' to stay 'wake…Can handle it."

Athos sighed and looked at d'Artagnan unhappily. The Gascon shrugged miserably and moved to the head of the table, placing his hands on his friend's shoulders.

"Are you reaDy?" Athos asked, soaking the head of the bullet extractor in Anjou wine.

Aramis gave a tight nod, clenching his eyes shut.

The tip of the medical tool slid into Aramis' wound with a sickening _squelch_ and Aramis immediately stiffened. Athos pushed it gently by continuously further into the wound, willing his hands to remain steady. When he tapped the bullet with it, Aramis started shaking and cursed in a harsh breath that sounded like a sob. Sweat rolled down his body, and d'Artagnan held his shoulders down mercilessly as Athos probed further.

Just as Aramis was on the verge of passing out again, he felt the metal sliding out of his back and the bullet with it. In its wake, it left a stinging trail of pain as if he had laid liquid fire into his flesh.

"Thank you," the musketeer croaked in a broken voice. "Much better."

The other two soldiers glanced at each other uneasily. Athos began bandaging his back carefully, with d'Artagnan standing by with a blanket. The minute he was done, the Gascon draped the light blanket over his trembling frame carefully. Aramis drifted quietly into a gray, painless place.

The other two looked at him in deep concern. The door opened and Treville walked in. His eyes immediately went to the unconscious soldier.

"How is he?" he asked anxiously.

"He's alive," d'Artagnan said, rubbing a hand across his mouth in a nervous gesture.

"They knew we were coming," Athos said wearily.

"There's word from Porthos. A messenger was supposed to tell you," Treville said, leaning against the table's edge.

"He overheard Isaac de Lorraine talking with a messenger about how Garnier was close to the estate and that the de Lorraine's could probably protect him now."

"So it could've been Garnier's men or de Lorraine's today in the forest," d'Artagnan said angrily, hunching his shoulders.

"What happened to the messenger?" Athos asked quietly. His face was pale and sober in the candlelight.

Treville sighed and dug in his pocket.

"This was all they found," he said, tossing a small hat to him. Athos instinctively brought his right arm up to catch it, and his vision was instantly seared with a bright white.

He would have fallen to his knees if d'Artagnan's reflexes hadn't been quite so fast.

"He got hit in the shoulder." Athos heard the words in a wavery, faraway tone as if underwater. Faintly, he felt himself being deposited gently on the bed.

"It's just a graze," he said weakly when the ringing had subsided enough to realize his shirt had been cut away.

Treville hissed as he caught sight of the wound. It had bled a great deal and was still weakly oozing blood; however, most of it had dried into a thick crust that sealed it shut. Angry purple bruising peeked out from behind the dark crimson all throughout his upper arm.

"This looks terrible," the Captain said briskly, grabbing a nearby washcloth and wetting it with water. "Athos, you know better than to let something like this go untreated. We're always running after you, like to a child."

The former comte didn't even grace _that_ statement with a reply, just looked over at Aramis who had fallen into a restless sleep.

"What can we do now?" d'Artagnan asked, looking up from his hands.

Treville regarded his men in silence. They both looked weary, the stress and pain of the day had clearly taken its toll.

"Rest," the Captain said simply. "Heal. I'll send direct correspondence to the estate de Lorraine telling them what happened today. After that, we'll have to reevaluate our options and see if we can get the rest of you closer to the bastard."

The musketeers nodded silently, too tired to formulate an argument. The Captain's mouth twitched in quiet amusement.

"Good night," he said, closing the door behind him. D'Artagnan settled down in a chair while Athos pinched the flames of the candles out.

* * *

Porthos woke up later than usual. The sunlight was streaming in through his window when he finally dragged himself from his bed. Making his way downstairs, he saw that he had missed the customary de Lorraine group breakfast. Fine with him. Better to eat alone than to be surrounded by twenty murderers disguised as bureaucrats.

The servants hadn't begun clearing the table when he sat down to the remains of their breakfast. He looked at the heaping plates of food leftover and shook his head. _The way these people wasted food was a crime_, he thought to himself.

He picked up a plate of half-finished scrambled eggs and grabbed an untouched scone from a pile. After he had finished those, he dug into some of the fruit and took a sip of coffee that someone had poured too much sweetener into.

The Lady Gabrielle walked down into the room, apparently having slept late herself.

Porthos stood when she entered the room and picked up a decanter containing tea. At her nod, he poured her a cup and handed it to her.

"Thank you," she said quietly as he sat back down to finish his breakfast.

"You're welcome," he said around a mouthful of food.

She watched him for a moment, then touched his hand. Astonished, he looked up.

"Porthos," she said gently. "No one in this house is forced to eat scraps. If you are hungry, there's always plenty of food and the servants are more than happy to—"

"No, Madame, there isn't," he interrupted, not unkindly. She stared at him and he could see that she only partly understood. Shoving back the disappointment he felt, he poured a little more milk into his purloined coffee.

"Besides," he continued, shrugging. "I've never been too picky about food."

Gabrielle stared at him and he could almost _feel_ her desperately trying to understand him, trying to grasp exactly _why_ he acted this way. After a moment, she took a deep breath and looked down at her hands.

"I'm required to be at a few meetings this afternoon which, fortunately, _you_ are not required to attend," she said, glancing out the window.

Porthos didn't ask who it was more fortunate for.

"You have the afternoon to yourself with the caveat that you keep your eyes and ears open. This evening, there will be another dinner. Please make yourself presentable by then," she added, not knowing how sharply the words stung.

"Yes, Lady," he said, not looking at her. An awkward silence fell over the table, and he looked up to find her with an odd expression on her face, somewhere between a frown and an amused smile.

"Somehow whenever you call me Lady, it seems as though you were saying the opposite," she said. "Rather like you were yelling it at me from a street corner."

Porthos felt his lips curving upwards in a smile. "Sorry," he answered, trying to keep a straight face.

Gabrielle smiled at him openly this time, and Porthos thought he could imagine when she was young and beautiful. Her smile had probably lit up the world then, too.

Bowing respectfully, he left the table and walked into the midmorning sunshine.

* * *

The first thing he did was check the with the post-master to see if there was any news for him from the musketeer's garrison. There wasn't. Looking around, he spotted the same young serving girl he had encountered in the kitchen (_Sara, her name was Sara, his mind helpfully supplied_). She was struggling to carry a box that was nearly as big as herself. Porthos hurried over and plucked the box from her small, white-knuckled hands easily.

"Thank—" she began only to trail off and looked horrified as she saw who had taken the box from her.

"Hey, it's alright," he eased quickly. "It's alright. There's no one around, and I just thought it looked like you needed a little help with this. It's awfully heavy."

Her eyes filled with tears and her voice shook as she implored him. "Oh, please don't tell! If they find out that I wasn't strong enough and that you helped me, I'll be fired!"

"I won't tell," Porthos said, alarmed. "I swear. Where does this need to go? Let's hurry."

Nearly running, she led him towards a small door on the side of the building which clearly led to the tunnels and secret hallways that the servants used to complete their daily chores, not to mention their quarters.

Sara twisted and turned through the narrow corridors, ducking and diving around other servants rushing about. Porthos, not quite as adept, had to slow for fear of being run over.

"Sara, what are you doing, bringing _him_ here?" one woman called in a warning. "You'll be fired for this," another man called as he ducked past her carrying a heavy serving tray.

She ignored all of these entreaties and wound deeper underground, down a spiraling staircase carved right into the bedrock. They entered a cool root cellar, and she pointed to an empty spot on the floor.

"There is fine," she said quietly. Porthos set it down, happy to be rid of the burden. He stood and stretched his back, before looking around.

"I can't believe they make you carry those down all those stairs," he said, looking back at the heavy crate. "Likely to break your necks."

"There are so many to take our places," Sara said, rubbing her cheek. "Broken necks don't mean much around here."

Porthos looked at her in astonishment. She gazed back sadly, then looked at her hands.

"Does the _monsieur_ require anything else?" she asked quietly, refusing to look him in the eye.

"Do you know anything about Garnier?" he prompted, taking a chance on the deepness of the cellar and their solitary surroundings.

She stiffened.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said, turning away.

"Wait," he said, stepping forward. "I need to know. I'm here to protect Madame Gabrielle de Lorraine. My friends, other musketeers, are out there trying to stop him, except we think that he might be getting closer. I can't do this alone. If you know anything, please tell me."

She stayed silent with her head bowed. Porthos waited without impatience. After a moment, her shoulders shook in soundless sobs and tears flowed down her face.

"I can't. He'll kill me," she said in a high, thin wail.

"Who? Garnier?" Porthos asked urgently, resting a hand on her shoulder.

She shook her head. "_Monsieur_ Isaac de Lorraine. He came down to the servant's quarters early this morning before the cockcrow. I heard him shake Jermaine and Landry awake, so I did. There's a shared partition between my room and theirs, _monsieur_," she said by way of explanation at Porthos' confused look.

"They were talking low, but I heard the _Monsieur_ say that there were some boxes that he wanted to be picked up from the gate and kept safe until the preparations for the dinner party this evening. Then they were to be brought up. He kept repeating on that point, he did. Before the guests arrived tonight."

"Did he say what was in the crates?" Porthos asked, heart beating.

She shook her head miserably, hugging herself. She shuddered again and in a quavering voice said, "But you can look for yourself."

She pointed a finger towards the back wall. Porthos had surveyed the room when he entered, and from the quick glance, he had surmised it was just plain bricks and mortar. With a jolt, he realized it was cunningly disguised with a dark canvas that completely hid the depths. It was more than enough room to hide a few large crates.

Striding over and keeping an ear attuned to the stairs lest someone came down, he dropped to his knees in front of the large wooden box.

"Don't!" Sara almost moaned, forgetting herself and pulling on his arm. "He'll know!"

Porthos ignored her and pried the front wooden slat off with some effort and peered into the dark interior. Folded inside the crate were a half dozen uniforms marking the servants of the house de Lorraine. Porthos frowned as he felt the rich, embroidered fabric beneath his fingers.

"Uniforms?" Sara asked, peeking through the fingers splayed over her eyes. "Our uniforms."

"Why would he order these especially?" Porthos turned to her.

"I'm not sure," she stammered, looking troubled. "We periodically get new ones, they wear out, they tear, they get stained."

"Did anyone need new uniforms?" Porthos asked sharply.

"There are so many servants here," Sara said, wringing her hands helplessly. "It's impossible to say for certain if new uniforms were called for. It isn't impossible."

Restraining the urge to slam his fist through the side of the wooden crate, Porthos calmly replaced the top and motioned to Sara to stand up.

"Let's get out of here," he said, heading for the stairs immediately. The serving girl nearly ran up the stairs in relief. They exited through the bustling corridors again and came back to the outdoor courtyard.

"Sara," Porthos said once they were blinking in the sunlight. "I'll not trouble you further. But thank you for showing me. You've helped a great deal."

She nodded awkwardly, still looking very uncomfortable.

He sighed and walked away without another word. He went back inside and sat down briefly with a glass of water, although he was far from resting. His thoughts chased each other around his head, trying to puzzle it out.

* * *

The dinner party was sheer elegance and refinement. The servants had all been working double shifts to make everything perfect. The dining room had been decorated so that every surface sparkled, and the very air was filled with a sense of vitality and excitement. Great tables laid out with more food than Porthos had seen in his entire life were lined throughout the room. A giant sculpture showed a heroic figure standing with a sword hanging neatly by his side. The face was noble, although the lace and curls in his hair denoted vanity rather than great strength besides obstinance.

Guests wandered around gracefully, talking of nothing important. Servants, in their best uniforms, appeared periodically to refill drinks or take plates. Everyone, it seemed, had worn their grandest finery. The outfits ranged from showy to downright gaudy and wasteful. They flaunted their bodies and their clothing as if they were their symbols of personal influence and money. _Maybe they were_, Porthos mused.

The musketeer was sitting quietly in a corner of the grand room with an untouched glass of blood-red wine in front of him. An old dame with gemstones too large and too gaudy to be anything but paste was prattling on, looking at him almost desperately. He nodded in all the right places, not listening. He was watching the de Lorraines.

Julienne was standing near the middle of the room, dressed in a flowing white gown that offset the contrast of her hair and made her eyes stand out. As Porthos watched, she threw her head back and laughed at something a guest said. It was a carefree, pure sound that turned more than a few heads. It didn't belong in a place like this. Gabrielle stood near her, smiling. Talitha and Leon chased each other through the crowd, excited to be included in the festivities. Isaac de Lorraine stood near his wife, with a fake smile plastered on. _If he held it for much longer, his face may crack,_ Porthos thought waspishly.

"But my son didn't _mean_ to sell all my furniture!" the old woman in front of him insisted. The feathers in her hat bobbed up and down along with her head on the scrawny stalk of a neck.

"He simply had to pay for the gambling debts he had incurred and to buy those nice dresses for his wife. So what if I wasn't at home when he took them? If he had asked, I would have given him anything, anything at all. What's it to me? I'd live in _poverty_ for him…"

On and on she jabbered, although even Porthos could see that she was trying to convince herself of her newfound destitution rather than justify it to him.

"What do you think I should do?" she suddenly asked anxiously, clutching at the arm he rested on the table.

Porthos looked at her fully for the first time and answered honestly.

"I think your son needs a good kick in the slats to knock the fool out of him. After someone works him over, I'm sure he'll straighten up and remember who raised him. If you'll excuse me, madame," he said, getting up swiftly after seeing Gabrielle leave the small group of de Lorraines and wander over to where the magnificent statue was situated.

The woman stared after him in shock, gaping mouthed and he left her amid the swirl of music and general bubbling of conversation.

Porthos carefully walked through the crowd and stopped next to Julienne de Lorraine. She turned to him and smiled immediately, revealing straight, white, even teeth. He smiled back, enjoying the sight.

"You look wonderful," he said truthfully. Up close he could see that she wore exquisite earrings that set off her brilliant eyes.

"I thank you," she said, curtseying. "Your attire is very becoming, Porthos. I should be glad to see more of it," she said, a light blush spreading high across her cheekbones.

The musketeer had chosen a beautifully rich gray shirt that pulled close to his body for the dinner. A pair of black, almost militaristic trousers and dark-leathered boots completed his outfit. He flushed, slightly, then looked towards where Gabrielle was standing.

"Who is that?" he asked, gesturing to the statue.

"His name is Samuel de Champlain," Julienne replied happily. "He's an explorer sent by our great monarch Henry IV, may God rest his soul. Champlain has reached land far away, called Canada, and has claimed it for France. There are missionaries spreading throughout now. They say the people there are quite savage and uneducated."

"Interesting," Porthos said, looking again at the statue's face. He hadn't been aware of expeditions being led. Something about Champlain's face suggested arrogance and a puling demeanor. He thought privately that any of the musketeers could have beaten the man in a fight.

"It's odd," Julienne murmured as if to herself.

"What, Madame?" Porthos asked, turning back to her.

"I was just looking at those servants standing near the statue," she said, gesturing. She wrinkled her nose a little as if in distaste or confusion.

"What about them?" the musketeer asked, setting his gaze upon them. Half a dozen men loitered near the statue by the Lady. There was nothing wrong with them inherently, but they looked ill at ease and awkward.

"Well, nothing, really. I thought I knew all the servants here, but I don't recognize them. I suppose more help was hired on for the event," she mused, taking a sip of her wine.

Porthos' saw one of the men make eye contact with him, dead-faced then broke it off. The last servant in line began reaching behind himself for something. The soldier realized simultaneously that Isaac de Lorraine was missing.

"Oh, hell!" the musketeer uttered, sprinting towards the Lady and away from the astonished Julienne.

Porthos charged through the crowd and upset a serving boy carrying a full tray of dirty dishes. They fell to the floor in a thunder of shattering glass. All the heads in the hall turned towards the commotion, but the musketeer was focused on only one thing.

As he approached the Lady, he caught a split-second glimpse of the object the fake servant held tightly in his left hand. His stomach dropped and his heart went into his throat as he recognized a bomb similar to the ones Vadim had used in Paris. The man threw the grenade in a slow-motion, underhanded toss. It landed on the ground with an audible _clink_. Porthos reached the group and kicked the explosive towards the rear wall so hard he felt the impact of pain travel up through his shinbone from his toe. He had time to think of the sliding move Aramis had made when he had sprawled over another bomb in a different time.

In the next moment, he shoved the Lady as hard as he could away from the direction of the bomb. The gentry screamed as she fell to the ground, Porthos dropped to the ground right above her, shielding her. A second later, his world exploded.

The musketeer closed his eyes as the thundering sound filled the hall and blew shrapnel towards them. Fiery, searing heat brushed against his back and sides, and he was aware of flying from the Lady. Everything went dark for a moment.

When Porthos opened his eyes again, somebody was screaming loudly. A body sprawled next to where he lay, charred, and hardly recognizable as a man. He could hardly breathe, and his chest was screaming for air. Just when he thought he would really lose consciousness someone moved the bodies that were laying on top of him and the pressure eased. He sucked in grateful gasps of air through his bruised windpipe. Hands hauled him up, and someone grasped under his chin with a strong hand. Porthos opened his eyes to meet the angry gaze of Isaac de Lorraine.

"Can you hear me?" he demanded.

"No," Porthos muttered, scratching at a bleeding ear. His eyes tried to slip closed again.

"Damn it, Porthos! How did you know what they would do?" Isaac asked, shaking the soldier.

"_You_ did it," the musketeer answered, feeling oddly detached.

Isaac's face twisted up. If Porthos had been more coherent, he might have recognized confusion.

"I don't know what in God's name you're babbling about, but I had nothing to do with this. I merely walked back to the kitchen to announce the dessert course served. I heard the blast and came running."

There were more words coming out of the man's mouth, but Porthos' eyes had wandered disinterestedly over to where the Lady lay on the ground, stunned. Isaac shook him roughly once more, but the musketeer was already unconscious.

* * *

Porthos woke up a little while afterward, lying on a comfortable bed with a serious-looking man bending over him.

"How do you feel?" the man asked, looking into his eyes.

"I don't know," the musketeer answered sluggishly, trying to hear through the ringing in his ears. "Where am I?"

"The Halls of Healing on the de Lorraine estate," the doctor replied, probing gently at a large bruise on Porthos' forehead. "You seem to have escaped serious injury."

"Where's the Lady?" Porthos asked suddenly, trying to sit up.

"She's fine, she's already up and walking around," the doctor said, alarmed. "Please, rest. We've removed the shrapnel from your shoulder already. The rest are just bruises, you should heal fairly quickly."

The musketeer did as he was bid and drank some water, looking at the thick swathe of bandages covering his right shoulder and chest. He felt like he had been beaten all over with a stick and he was half-deaf, but he was alive. When the room stopped spinning, he made himself stand up and stumbled away from the protesting doctor.

Every bed was occupied. Some of them were awake, some weren't. Some just looked pale, some were hardly recognizable as human beings under all the blood and dirt. Isaac de Lorraine was standing near the door, conversing with a doctor. The soldier's lip curled in distaste.

Porthos caught sight of Julienne and the Lady across the room and limped over to them. Julienne was seated on a bench, with Leon sitting next to her, and Talitha was clutched tightly in her arms on her mother's lap. All of them looked shocked and bleak. A wave of nausea clawed at Porthos when he realized that Julienne's beautiful white dress was now covered with blood and bits of gristle. She looked mostly unharmed and watched him approach with gratitude.

"Thank God you're alright," she breathed, too worn out for further emotion.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, eyes wracking over the three of them.

"No, we're alright," she said quietly, smoothing Talitha's hair with one hand and trying to smile. "Gabrielle is unhurt, but—"

Julienne stopped herself, and tears filled her eyes now. She turned around and pointed helplessly to a bed set apart from the others.

Porthos left without a glance back. The Lady was standing by someone's bedside, looking desolate and lost. She looked up when the musketeer approached. There was a nasty cut on her scalp and some other scrapes littered her arms and face, but her eyes were just as bright as ever. Porthos' eyes slipped down to the unmoving figure on the bed. _Caton_.

The servant lay still and pale against the soft sheets. His head was wrapped in crisp white bandages, but Porthos could already see blood beginning to seep through the bottom layers. He was badly burned and breathed softly in irregular spurts. The musketeer hazily remembered that Caton had been much closer to the blast and swallowed hard.

Gabrielle wiped away a single tear that rolled down her otherwise hard, expressionless face.

"The doctors say they're doing everything they can for him, but they don't think he'll survive the night," the Lady said quietly, reaching out with slender fingers and touching the back of Caton's hand. Porthos had to turn away from the sight as his throat closed with emotion.

"I'm sorry," he said uselessly.

"It should have been me," she said clinically, looking at Caton's unmoving face with intense concentration. "I was the one they were after. You figured it out and saved me. And now he's lying there instead of me."

Gabrielle looked up at him, eyes a little sharper now, and cut through her grief. "How did you know?"

Porthos caught sight of Isaac de Lorraine walking over to where his wife sat.

"I'll explain everything later, you have my word," Porthos said seriously. "Right now, I need to talk with Isaac."

The Lady's gaze burned into his own, and then her face fell.

"Oh, Porthos," she finally said. Her voice broke on his name. "I'm so sorry you were dragged into this."

He set a hand on her shoulder comfortingly, knowing how it felt to need something grounded, and forced a smile.

"Me too," he said and turned on his heel.

The soldier limped over to the family. Isaac looked distracted more than anything else and was hardly paying attention to his wife or stepchildren.

"It's not safe for you to stay here anymore," Isaac said to Julienne as Porthos approached. "You can travel to my cousin's house, on the outskirts of Ardennes. You should get there in a few hours, and I think it's best to stay there for tonight."

"I'm not leaving, Isaac," Julienne said firmly, holding the sleeping Talitha with one arm. Her other hand rested on Leon's shoulder.

"I've some business to discuss with him that may benefit us all," Isaac said, trying not to sound angry.

"Do what you must," his wife responded levelly. "But my children and I are staying at our home tonight."

His mouth twisted into something ugly before he nodded tersely. "If that is your wish," he said tightly.

"I want to sleep," Julienne said. Her mouth trembled at the corners and she looked very close to crying. Isaac was unmoved.

"Sleep well," he replied carelessly. Even Porthos could see that his mind was already preoccupied, and he hated the man wholly in that instant. His teeth ground together. If his pistol had been in its holster at his side, he would have gladly shot the man through his cold, murderous heart.

The black-haired woman walked quietly out of the hall and slipped through the door.

Isaac turned to go, but Porthos stopped him with a movement of his hand.

"We need to talk," he said. For a moment, he thought the de Lorraine was going to balk, but his jaw just tightened.

"Not here," he said. "Let's go outside."

Trying to look nonchalant and very aware of the Lady's gaze on him, Porthos followed Isaac through the doors. The night air was chilly but incredibly sweet.

"Who is responsible for this?" Isaac asked abruptly once they were out of earshot of the medical building doors.

"I saw six servants standing near the statue of Champlain," Porthos answered. "They stood out like they didn't belong. One of them reached behind and pulled out the bomb. I kicked it as hard as I could in the opposite direction, and then it exploded."

"How did they get in?" Isaac mused.

Porthos stared at him.

"What the hell do you mean? You put them there! You hired them and gave them new uniforms from the crates in the cellar!" he exclaimed, losing his patience.

The musketeer felt the blow to his chin before his tired eyes even saw Isaac's fist cock back. His head snapped back, then rolled to the side. He spat out a mouthful of blood to his left and wiped his bruised jaw with the back of his hand.

"Watch your tongue!" the man hissed; eyes full of hatred. "I did no such thing. I don't know how you came by that information, but those uniforms were simply to replace old ones the servants already had. It's true, I did hire extra servants for the event. But they were all young girls, closer to the liking of the gentlemen attending." Hs expression shifted to something leering and sly. It took everything Porthos had not to hit the man with all his strength.

"And I suppose the bomb grew its own little legs and walked into that man's pocket? Why did you act so secretive about the uniforms?" the musketeer shot back. The remark was childish, but he was hurting too badly and too exhausted to care much.

"I don't know what you're playing at," Isaac said contemptuously. "But I didn't do this. I wanted discretion regarding the service because it would be undignified if any of the guests knew that de Lorraine didn't host enough staff to cater for the occasion. Servants are talkative, obviously."

Porthos shook his head wearily. It was becoming hard to concentrate on the man's words.

"Do as you will. I'm going to bed," the musketeer said, too confused to try and sort out the information.

"Very well," Isaac replied icily. "Before you take your rest, you'll pack your things. I want you gone by tomorrow."

"What?" Porthos demanded, wide awake again.

"Your services are no longer required, and you are not welcome on my land. Your time here is done," the noble said slowly as if the soldier were too stupid to understand.

"It's done when the Lady says it's done," Porthos said quietly. His hand casually moved closer to the knife holstered at his side. "I work for her, not for you."

Isaac saw his hand moving and grinned widely. His eyes showed bright hate in his pale eyes and his nostrils flared. He suddenly resembled a grinning demon in the near-darkness.

"You would kill me?" he asked quietly. "Do so then, _musketeer_, if you can," The words were dripping with contempt and hatred, although his voice jagged up and down unsteadily.

Porthos stood his ground, not moving or speaking, but ready if the man decided to rush him.

They waited in tense silence, and Isaac saw in Porthos' face that to rush would be his death. Porthos would not flinch.

His face narrowed into something sly and cunning. Porthos felt his skin crawl.

"Another time, perhaps," Isaac de Lorraine said before turning on his heel and slinking into the shadows as if he belonged there.

Porthos stood unmoving and watched until he could no longer see the noble. Waves of exhaustion rolled over him, and he was suddenly drained. Forcing himself to stand upright in case Isaac was waiting for him in the darkness, he made the long and uneventful trek back to his room. Once there, he peeled off his filthy, blood-stained clothes and fell into his bed.

A short while later, his door opened a crack, and Porthos was instantly awake and peering through the darkness.

A thin, lithe frame crept gracefully into his room. The moonlight played over even the deepest shadows and Porthos saw the midnight hair and blue eyes filled with tears.

"Julienne," he said roughly, sitting up in bed. The blanket fell away from his bare chest, exposing the startlingly white bandages against his skin.

She came to his bedside, a dream of beauty and sorrow. Boldly, she leaned forward and captured his lips with her own. He froze, stunned and tried to push her away, sweet taste mingling with tears.

"Julienne, I—" he began.

"Please," she whispered in the dark. "I don't want to be alone tonight."

She climbed into his bed, and neither was alone on that cursed, sweet, blood-stained, pleasure-filled night.


	6. Chapter 6

_**A/N:**_ Hello! Here is the second-to-last chapter of my story! I'm posting the final chapter immediately after this one, just so no one has to wait. I'm too excited to keep it on my computer any longer :) Hopefully that makes up for how long it took me to post this.

I hope the ending is fitting, and that you enjoy it! If anything needed work, my grammar, the character consistencies, or literally anything else, I'd love to hear about it in a review. I'm here to learn and get better at writing.

I also have a serious question. In my copies of The Three Musketeers and its sequel Twenty Years After, the Gascon's name is always written as D'Artagnan. Here, I've seen d'Artagnan except when it's at the beginning of a sentence. Does anyone know which is technically correct? I feel like grammatically it would be d'Artagnan, but I'm not sure. Anyways.

Standard Disclaimer: Not I, sir.

* * *

Awareness returned to Porthos slowly, coming through in layers. Before he fully woke up, he stretched out luxuriously. His right hand felt only the bare bed next to him. He opened his eyes and stared at the empty space where Julienne had been. He felt hollow and empty and somehow disappointed. The musketeer shoved the feelings aside and stumbled up to get ready for the day with a sigh.

He reached down to unwind the bandages around his shoulder and winced when the fabric pulled on his wound. Porthos looked at his arm clinically for a moment, then walked over to the wall and began rifling through the vanity's drawers to find some more bandages.

"Fair stitching, but nothin' to write home about," Porthos muttered to himself. His lips curved up unconsciously in a wry grin as he thought about Aramis.

Bandaging himself turned out to be more than he bargained for, even with the aid of the mirror which showed him exactly how much of his skin was bruised. After twenty minutes of pain and muttered curses, he finally got a passable imitation of proper wrapping on his shoulder. He hurried over to his wardrobe and hastily pulled on some clothes.

The sun was beginning to play upon his pillow, and he thought regretfully of the extra sleep he could have gained. Then he remembered flashes of Isaac's conversation last night and his face hardened.

He had one hand on the doorknob poised to turn it when a flash of blue caught his eye. Porthos reached over onto the small stand near the door and felt the smooth stone of Julienne's earring under his fingertips. Smiling slightly, he tucked it into his pocket without thinking and left his room.

He limped downstairs and saw that the breakfast table was empty today. He glanced at the clock on the wall and frowned. There should have been an entire crowd of de Lorraines talking incessantly and ordering the servants around by now.

"They've all decided to stay in their rooms this morning," a voice came from behind him. Porthos whirled in shock and his hands dipped toward his belt, where his pistol would have been.

Gabrielle de Lorraine stood with her back to him, pouring coffee into a cup at the counter.

"Good morning, Lady," Porthos said, relaxing and sinking into a chair.

She didn't answer but walked over to the table and sat down opposite him. She slid a cup over to his side of the table without a word, and he gratefully took a sip.

"How's Caton?" he asked after a moment of silence.

The Lady sighed. Her face was pale and wan in the stark sunlight. She hadn't slept at all, Porthos realized.

"He's still alive, so that's something," she said quietly, gripping her cup as if she were chilled.

"I'm—" he began, hating the defeated look in her eyes.

"Don't say you're sorry, Porthos," she said, looking away from him. "There's nothing we can do for him. He'll live if God wills it. The best thing you can do now is tell me exactly how you knew."

Her blue eyes tore into his own, and he felt their intensity as he began his narrative. He began slowly at first, then taking up the story more naturally.

She didn't interrupt at all until he came to the hired assassins disguised as servants.

"You're sure they were wearing the same uniforms you saw in the box?" she asked.

"Yes, Lady," Porthos said, knowing he wasn't mistaken.

"Who took you into the cellar to these boxes?" she asked, eyes sharpening again.

"I'm not at liberty to say," he answered carefully. "I don't want the servant responsible to be punished for helping me."

She looked at him for a long moment, and he could see frustration and a grudging understanding warring in her gaze.

He scowled down at the scarred surface of the table, wishing he were back at the garrison.

"I understand," she said finally in an indecipherable voice. He couldn't tell if she was pleased or not.

"Then what happened?" she continued, taking another long sip of coffee.

"I went outside with Isaac after I woke up in the Halls of Healing. He said he didn't have anything to do with the hired assassins," Porthos said, looking at the steam rising from his cup.

"Do you believe him?" she asked.

"I don't know," Porthos answered truthfully after a few moments. "He didn't sound like he was lying, and Julienne was in the room. I don't think he would have intentionally harmed her."

The Lady's head shot up and the wandering expression was replaced with a steely look that would have cut through harder men. Porthos felt unease creeping tendrils up his spine.

"He wouldn't have hurt Julienne, eh? It may be so. Then what happened?" she probed suddenly.

"Nothing. I went to bed," he said, not looking at her.

Gabrielle's damnable eyes didn't miss a single nuanced look.

"Really? Because I was up in my room awake for most of the night, and I heard a noise very early this morning of someone creeping around. More specifically, creeping out of your room. Mayhap that was you?"

Porthos sighed and shook his head.

It was all the answer she needed. Very calmly, Gabrielle de Lorraine got up from her side of the table and walked over to his.

He looked up at her and the second their eyes connected, she slapped him as hard as she could. He rocked sideways on his chair and was forced to grab the table to stop from falling onto the floor.

Porthos felt his burning cheek with a palm and stared up at her.

"How dare you," she said in a low voice that he only managed to catch through the ringing in his ear.

"How dare you do this to my family? You took advantage of a woman who doesn't know what she wants, and now? Isaac will kill you, as will be his right. And he'll kill her too," Gabrielle said, eyes filling with tears of mingled rage and shame.

"It was never my intention—" he heard himself say through the ringing in his ears.

"I don't care what your intention was!" she yelled, all composure lost now. "You've condemned yourself, worse, you've damned my daughter alongside yourself. If it were in my power, I'd have you drawn and quartered immediately!"

Porthos kept still, clenching his jaw. Equal parts of injustice and shame swirled within him.

"Get out," she said, rising from the table and walking towards the counter space.

"What?" he asked, confused.

"Get out of my house!" she said furiously. Rage was evident in every line of her posture.

"I don't care what your Captain said about my protection. It was a mistake to bring you here, and an even bigger mistake to think that I could trust you."

The words stung, but Porthos couldn't exactly blame her.

"Garnier is still trying to kill you," he said evenly, keeping his temper carefully controlled.

"Do you think I care? There may well be a bastard child in the house de Lorraine kindled in my daughter now. And even if there isn't, those who come after me won't keep the integrity of the family. Just go."

"Lady—" Porthos began, standing up.

"_Get out!"_ she shrieked, all the fires of hell dancing in her eyes. "If the guards find you here again, I'll give them direct orders to shoot you on sight, _do you understand_?"

Her chest heaved and her face was drawn up in tight lines of hatred and fury. Porthos had seen that look before and knew there was nothing he could say that would change how she felt.

The musketeer turned and walked away without word nor glance back.

* * *

Porthos was back in his room, automatically stuffing things back into his bag. His face was blank, but emotions chased each other around in his aching head.

Every time he stuffed another object into his bag, a thought snagged like barbed wire and hurt.

Numbing, all-consuming fury rose up in him helplessly. It wasn't his fault that everything had ended this way. _Damn this anyway_, he thought.

Julienne's pale face rose up in his thoughts and he shoved the bag away, stomping over to the window. _And damn you for making me care. _

Leon poked his head in through the doorway and looked at the scattered objects around the room.

"Goodness," the young voice said archly, making Porthos jump for the second time that morning. "It's no wonder you've been sacked, you're very messy."

"Not the time, Leon," Porthos growled, forcing himself to control his anger. Leon didn't have anything to do with his predicament.

Another wave of fury and loathing rolled over him, this time self-directed. What the hell had he been thinking? _Obviously, you weren't_, a voice that sounded like Athos said in his mind.

"I take it you were listening?" he asked, not looking at the child.

"I was on my way to get breakfast," Leon answered, looking critically at himself in Porthos' mirror. "A little difficult not to hear, to tell the truth."

He suddenly turned to Porthos, and his expression made him look very young.

"Is it true that you laid with my mother last night?" he asked, looking both uneasy and desperate to know the truth.

Porthos sighed.

"Yes," he answered, knowing there was no point in lying now.

"Are you going to marry her?" Leon asked, trying to hide the hopeful look.

"I don't think so," the musketeer answered.

The boy's face fell. He knew nothing of romance, and his fantasies were disappearing one by one like popped soap bubbles.

"But…I don't understand. If you, well," his face turned red, but he pressed on, fumbling. "Doesn't she love you?" he asked, eyes getting wide again.

"I don't know," Porthos answered, not letting his face show how empty the answer felt. "She just doesn't love Isaac."

Leon's face was still and grave for a moment. When he glanced up again, the look in his eyes had aged. This boy had seen his first real taste of the world, and it hadn't been kind and beautiful to look at.

Porthos had seen this expression a thousand times in a thousand young faces. Growing up in the Court of Miracles slapped the childhood out of your eyes quickly. It wasn't easy to see, and the musketeer realized that he still hated it even after all this time.

Patting, Leon's shoulder, he went back to his packing, more methodically now.

"Where will you go?" the boy asked, trying very hard to keep his voice steady.

"Back to the garrison, I suppose," Porthos replied after a pause. "See if I can meet with my friends and decide what to do next."

He slung his pack over one shoulder and looked around the room for a last time. He didn't let himself linger long and stepped towards the door.

"Porthos, no," Leon pleaded. He sounded like he was trying very hard not to cry. "Don't leave."

The musketeer turned back and saw old eyes getting older in a young face.

"I have to," Porthos said, knowing he had no choice and hating himself anyway. He left.

* * *

He made his way to the stables and felt relief and anger in equal parts that he didn't meet anyone on the way. Every bone in his body protested the notion of creeping away quietly, but what choice did he have?

Porthos looked through the interior of the well-kept stable, looking at the stalls until he found the one holding the horse he had ridden to the estate. The horse stared back at him patiently with dark eyes, chewing on some hay.

The musketeer reached forward and petted the horse's neck, and the horse watched him passively.

"How will you get back after I've taken you?" Porthos asked the animal quietly. "You can't exactly walk all the way back here by yourself from Paris."

The horse, predictably, didn't answer, but just tossed its great head and resumed chewing hay. Porthos slipped a halter over the animal's soft nose. _They were so well trained_, Porthos thought. It was a wonder they even bothered with traditional bridles. The horses didn't need the guidance.

Just as he was about to lead the horse out, he heard running footsteps towards the stable. A strong, undeniable sense of _wrong_ cut through his mind in a flash like lightning and he didn't question the feeling. Without a second thought, he leaped into the stable alongside the horse and pulled the gate closed behind him. He just had time to unbuckle the halter before he dropped to the ground.

The footsteps ran into the stable, echoing on the stone floor. Porthos listened carefully and thought that he could distinguish three different sets of feet. He stayed quiet in the hay, inwardly grateful that the stall had been cleaned well.

Harsh breathing filled the stable, then a noise of impact and a grunt of pain. Someone hit the stable door in front of Porthos hard enough to rattle the door and make the horse shy back and whinny in surprise. The musketeer grimaced silently and made himself as small possible to avoid being trampled.

"Your time is through, de Lorraine," an unfamiliar voice said.

"I thought your stupidity was at its peak when you came here and thought you could kill my mother-in-law easily, but clearly I was wrong. This is absurd," Isaac's voice rang through the stables, arrogant and cold.

"The only thing absurd here is how long it took you to realize the truth," another voice said. Porthos could hear a shuffling noise, as if someone were crouching down, then another noise of impact. A moment of silence, then a gun cocking.

The musketeer's eyes widened and he squeezed himself against the stable wall a split second before the dry roar of the gun cracked through the small space.

A cry of pain sounded, and the bullet punched itself through the stable door and missed Porthos by mere inches before it buried itself in the opposite wall. Miraculously, the shot also missed the horse, which now cried out and reared, eyes wild and panicked. Running footsteps were instantly cutting through the gunshot retort as the criminals took to their heels and fled. The musketeer stood and immediately put one hand on the horse's neck and knotted the fingers on his other hand through the mane.

The horse was still whinnied in fright, and the other horses took up the cry.

"Hush!" Porthos called out, calm but stern. The poor beast finally calmed and just stood in the stable with its sides heaving and shaking as if having run a great distance.

Porthos patted the sweaty neck once more and pulled the gate open again.

Isaac de Lorraine would have fallen into the stall if the soldier hadn't stooped and caught him by the shoulders. Hauling him to the side, Porthos propped the man up against the next stall gate and looked.

The noble was in a bad way. He was blinking rapidly, and a great hole torn through his abdomen by the bullet was bleeding freely and staining his shirt. Blood had already begun bubbling from his mouth when he tried to breathe. His white, soft hands rested in his lap and he looked to Porthos in dull surprise.

"I thought there was someone here," Isaac rasped out. "I heard you move when the horse reared."

"Who were they?" Porthos asked urgently.

"It was two of the servants from the other night, the ones by the statue," Isaac gasped out, coughing and spitting blood. "They came to kill another de Lorraine. It'll be easier for them to get to Gabrielle now…"

His head lolled forward onto his chest, and Porthos pushed him back upright with a bolt of panic.

"Hey," he said, shaking the man. Isaac's eyes flew open, so bright and undeniably full of life that it was hard for a moment to remember he was dying.

"I heard you talking with Garnier," Porthos said roughly. "In the meadow, I heard you saying you would shelter him."

"To get him out of France," Isaac said angrily. The musketeer could hear the blood catching in his throat as he struggled to speak past it.

"He wanted Gabrielle dead before, but he never bargained on you musketeers showing up. It was clear after your support that if she went down, all hell would break loose. He couldn't risk it after that. There was too much at stake. I was going to let him heal at the estate from the attack you and the others led on him, then help smuggle him through a harbor in Calais."

Porthos was quiet for a moment. The shallow gasps of the dying man were loud in the silence.

"I'm sorry I suspected you," the musketeer said finally, not knowing what else he should say. They weren't friends, they didn't even respect each other. And yet one was slipping away while the other stayed, comforting him the best he could.

Issac looked at him shrewdly. Blood had coated his mouth and covered his chin by now, but his gaze was just as piercing as it had been on the day they met.

"You did what you had to do," the man replied flatly. His body shook with uncontrollable tremors now.

Porthos shifted and moved forward to look at the wound, feeling guilty and unhappy and hopeless.

When he moved, a small _tink_ of stone on stone sounded and he looked down. Julienne's blue earring had fallen from his pocket and twinkled up at him, catching a ray of sunshine.

Isaac's eyes lit upon it, then flew to Porthos' face. His expression was one of shock, of dismay, of sorrow.

"You?" he asked, unable to speak further.

The musketeer nodded slightly, torn apart by warring emotions. Isaac's face hardened into a grimace of pain and determination and he reached forward.

He reached out and yanked Porthos closer with a white-knuckled grip on his collar until there was scarcely space between their faces.

"You were with my wife?" he gritted out, more blood flowing now.

"I—" Porthos began, trying to pull away.

"No, you fool! My wife! She's the one trying to kill Gabrielle! She did this! She did all of it!" Isaac snarled into his face. Some of the blood flew alongside spittle from his mouth and his eyes sparkled with mad intensity. The noble shook the musketeer slightly on the last statement, then released him and leaned back against the stable doors.

A fit of coughing overtook him, and his face had gone a dull, gray color. He didn't have much time.

Porthos leaned back on his heels, reeling with shock. A small part of his brain had already coldly registered the fact, although the rest of his mind groped helplessly in the dark.

"She was…No, that can't be…Julienne wouldn't…" he said in a trembling, uncertain voice.

"_Open your everlasting eyes and use the addled brains you have, god damn you!" _Isaac exclaimed furiously, pain and raw anger standing in his dark eyes.

His body stiffened as the pain coursed through his body and he shut his eyes tightly. When the pain eased a little, he opened his eyes and the madness had gone out of them, leaving only weariness.

"My wife was behind the attempts. I had my suspicions, but I didn't know for sure until the night of the explosion. She hired the extra assassins and stole the uniforms. I protected Gabrielle for as long as I could, but it's up to you now." The words were a gravelly whisper choked off.

Isaac caught the musketeer's regretful look and tried for a little scoffing laugh, which only made a horrible drowning sound.

"I should have killed her when I had the chance," he said grimly. His eyes glazed over and he drew his last breath staring into space.

Porthos didn't close the man's eyes. He didn't say a prayer. He didn't do anything except stare at the man who used to be Isaac de Lorraine.

After a minute, he remembered where he was. If he was discovered here, he would be executed without question. He still might be later. Only one thing was certain: he couldn't do this alone.

He saddled the horse as quickly as he could and collected his bag. He rode out of the stables and kicked his heels to the animal's sides. It began galloping willingly, and he rode through the estate entrance, fleeing towards more danger, rather than away. Paris lay in his path.

* * *

Aramis woke up and blearily tried to remember what happened. He tried to move, and pain seared through his back. He hissed through his teeth and pressed a hand to the spot, feeling bandages under his fingertips.

He squinted around the room bathed in bright sunlight; the day was well on its way to becoming afternoon. D'Artagnan was slumped in a wooden chair with his head lolling off to the side in sleep. Athos' slack, pale face was visible lying on the other cot in the room on his back. He snored quietly, something he almost never did unless totally exhausted.

Aramis realized he was thirsty, although even the thought of food made nausea roil in his stomach. Gulping, he swung his feet over the edge of the bed and stood. He knew instantly that he had moved to quickly and fell to his knees, gripping the edge of the bed with one hand.

The noise startled d'Artagnan so that he fell off the chair and Athos sat bolt upright with the pistol he kept under his pillow already cocked and aimed to shoot before his eyes were even fully open.

They looked at each other, and the eldest musketeer sighed as he went to shove the gun back into its accustomed place. He reconsidered for a moment, then threw the pillow at d'Artagnan's head.

"How are you feeling?" the Gascon asked, dodging the soft projectile easily and helping the medic back onto the bed.

"Thirsty," Aramis said truthfully.

D'Artagnan rolled his eyes but smiled and poured his friend a cup of water.

A small knock on the door sounded, and d'Artagnan got up to answer.

Treville stood there, fully dressed and ready for action.

"We have a problem," he said, eyeing each of the soldiers up and down.

The Gascon's shoulders sagged a little, then straightened. He looked exhausted but would never admit it, foolishly continuing with dogged tenacity. Athos showed no emotion, only stood and awaited his orders without impatience. He would continue in his tasks until he simply dropped in his tracks if necessary. Aramis was a different story. The man was still pale and Treville could see the pain lines around his eyes. He would go if need be, but he couldn't be trusted to look after his own well-being when it came to that of his brothers.

"We've just gotten word that an explosion took place at the de Lorraine estate last night. The Lady Gabrielle was there along with about two hundred other people. A bomb was thrown into the crowd in an attempt on her life," Treville said, reading from a scrap of paper he pulled from his pocket.

"Oh, my God," Aramis said, paling further. "And Porthos…?" His eyes pleaded desperately for and dreaded the answer.

"He's alive and mostly unhurt," Treville said. A collective sigh of relief was heard from the other three.

"Latest correspondence says that many died or were injured. There's a notion that some of the assassins were disguised as servants and slipped the bomb through security that way. Porthos got to the Lady in time, none of the de Lorraines were seriously hurt. Caton, her personal servant, was injured critically and isn't expected to survive."

The room was quiet with sordid reflection. Aramis barely heard the words about the state of the house. Porthos was alright, that's all that mattered.

Athos' brow was furrowed in thought, though he remained silent.

"Given the nature of this attack, I've decided to send you to meet with Porthos again at the estate de Lorraine. There's no point in hiding from Garnier now that he's so close to them. You'll have a better chance of defeating him together. I suppose you knew that all along," Treville said wryly.

The bond between soldiers in the King's service was often close, but the Captain had seen these four men work together in the field. It made him glad, but it also made him uneasy. Sometimes their devotion to each other was downright chilling.

"When do we leave?" d'Artagnan asked, chewing on a thumbnail.

"As soon as you're able," Treville said, looking at Aramis.

"I'm fine," the medic assured and stood up, wavered, then straightened.

"Can you ride?" Athos asked, taking his arm to steady him.

"I'll make it," Aramis said, already dreading the thought.

"If there were another way—" Treville began, looking at him with deep sympathy.

"I know," the musketeer replied, forcing a humorless smile.

With help from the other two, Aramis managed to get dressed while Treville went to ready their horses.

When they walked down the steps to the courtyard, the Captain was leading four horses by the bridles.

"I thought you may want to take Porthos' horse for him. Never know when you may need another mount," Treville said seriously.

"Thank you," Athos said, taking the reins and mounting. If he was weary, it didn't show.

D'Artagnan followed suit with a grateful nod and leaped into the saddle with remarkable agility.

Aramis grit his teeth and managed to get a leg up, then another. He leaned against his horse's neck and willed the black spots in his vision to go away. When his sight cleared, Treville had taken the reins and was watching him with concern.

"I'm fine," Aramis said in a hoarse voice, wiping away the cold sweat on his brow. "Just getting ready. See you soon, Captain."

"Good luck," Treville said. They nodded, then spurred their horses. The Captain watched them go with a heavy heart.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: And heeeere they are! Lol. Let me know what you think. I may have a few more stories to tell from here, but it'll take some doing to get them from the idea stage to the actual writing stage. Thanks so much to everyone who gave this fic love. I felt like the ending was a bit rushed, but I'm still fairly happy with how it turned out. Have a great week everyone!

* * *

Porthos felt the horse begin flagging and instantly pulled back to a quick walk. He glanced up to the sky and resisted the urge to curse. It was getting late now. The horse was strong and young, and would carry his weight, but couldn't run forever. The heavy load that had laid on his heart grew stronger with every mile he put between himself and the de Lorraine estate.

"Nothing is ever easy," Porthos muttered unhappily to himself and sighed. His tired eyes picked out a fence post in the distance, then another. The road stretched out in front of him, and he was still a long way from Paris. He rested the horse, then spurred it again. The beautiful stallion picked up the pace willingly and began running. Porthos rode easily, feeling the wind flap against his ears and snatch away his breath. He saw a dark blurred shape on the horizon and squinted into the bright, early evening sunshine. Another dark shape joined the first, then another. All riding in his direction. The musketeer spurred the horse faster.

* * *

Athos rode in front of the group. The cool breeze flew past his face and made him squint his eyes. His vision wasn't affected, and he saw the rider on the horizon almost as soon as he appeared.

D'Artagnan made a noise of surprise from behind him, and Aramis looked up from his knuckles in a death-grip on the reins and straightened his hunched back a little.

"What is it?" the handsome musketeer asked hoarsely.

"Maybe trouble," Athos called back. "And in our path. Be ready."

Aramis closed his eyes for a moment and felt the cool, smooth-handled grip of his pistol under his feverish palm.

He knew that even in his condition, he would likely be able to hit the target easily if he moved even another hundred yards closer. If it really was trouble like Athos thought, then they'd have little difficulty dispatching it.

As the riders approached each other, the mystery figure stuck two fingers into his mouth and gave the piercing three-note whistle of a lapwing. This was a common signal for a friend, known in the circles of traders on the road and soldiers.

"Porthos," Aramis breathed, taking his hand quickly from the butt of his pistol.

"It's him!" D'Artagnan cried joyfully before giving the return signal. Athos' lips curved up.

"I should have known," he said to himself, before spurring his horse. Porthos himself had taught the Gascon that signal mere weeks after the young man had joined the musketeers.

Aramis spurred his horse, bracing himself against the pain. The riders rode furiously to each other, although D'Artagnan was the first there. He practically threw himself from the saddle before his horse had even fully stopped and ran towards their friend.

Athos reached them next, and Aramis came to a painful stop soon after.

"We were coming to meet you at the estate," the Gascon got out excitedly.

"I was coming back to Paris to meet you," Porthos said with a small smile. His spirits lifted at seeing his friend's happy face.

His gaze shifted over to Athos who was helping Aramis down gently from his saddle. Aramis set his feet on the ground, still clinging to the pommel and exhaled sharply through his mouth once.

"Are you alright?" Porthos asked, moving quickly over to grab his friend's arm in concern.

Aramis turned to him, white-faced and shaking.

"Nothing a good rest couldn't fix," he replied, managing a smile.

Athos turned his face upward to look at the blue fading to a brilliant orange on the horizon.

"We should all rest for a little while, if we can," D'Artagnan murmured, catching the tenor of his mentor's thoughts.

Athos turned to look and saw the indecision and strain on Porthos' face. Aramis turned to him, as well. The medic's pale face made the choice for Porthos.

"We should try to get back by midnight at the latest," the musketeer said haltingly. "The horses need rest, and so do we. For now, I've something to tell you."

"Is it a story?" D'Artagnan asked flippantly, trying to lighten the mood. "Full of monsters or something like that?"

Julienne's alabaster face in the moonlight rose to Porthos' mind again. He looked at his friend and smiled in a sad way that none of them recognized. "You may find a monster or two in it, yes. _I_ did."

Aramis and Athos both looked up in sudden unease.

D'Artagnan's face fell and he immediately went to his friend. "Porthos, I didn't mean anything by it. Truly," he said, feeling like he could have kicked himself.

Porthos gripped his arm bracingly, gave it a squeeze, then let go.

"It's alright. Been a long day."

That short sentence contained volumes of meaning, and Athos didn't miss any of it. Aramis, although standing a little hunched, likewise looked at his friend in concern.

"That field should be alright for now," D'Artagnan said, glancing to his right and spotting an open space of ground. The horses can graze, and we can have a small fire."

"I'll collect the wood," Porthos said, heading over to the wood line without waiting to hear their answer. He needed time to collect his thoughts and feelings as well as the tinder.

Aramis made as if to follow him and was stopped by a gentle hand on his arm.

Athos shook his head once. "Let him be. He needs time. And you need rest."

Aramis let himself be led towards where D'Artagnan was making camp without complaint. His head swam unpleasantly, but he felt marginally better after sitting down.

Camp was made quickly and without any talking, save a word or two. The routine was worn with lines of comfort and familiarity, and Aramis sank gratefully into the silence. The horses grazed quietly together, untethered and allowed to roam freely.

After only a few minutes, the fire was lit, and darkness fell slowly on their little camp. They sat in companionable silence. D'Artagnan produced a few apples from one of his saddlebags and tossed them around. Athos munched on his apple contemplatively. Porthos looked at his for a long moment before setting it carefully to the side.

Aramis looked at him carefully, noting the stiff movement on his right shoulder, and the bruises decorating his face.

"You look awful," he said finally.

Porthos snorted. "Have you looked in a mirror recently? You look like you've a fever, too," he said speculatively.

"I'm fine," Aramis said in a voice that sounded false to his own ears and took a defiant bite of his apple. His stomach churned, but he forced himself to swallow.

"Sure. You're great. Everyone's great," D'Artagnan said, rolling his eyes.

Athos looked at Porthos, but the large musketeer wasn't looking at him. He was staring deeply into the flames. His face was worn with care and pain that hadn't been there when he left the garrison. A serious, sober look worried the lines around his eyes as he sat silently.

After a few minutes of silence, Porthos looked up at them. Something in his eyes had hardened and changed, and Aramis drew in a dismayed breath. For Porthos to be looking like that…

"Something bad?" Athos mused, not really asking.

"Bad enough," he answered, sighing. He slowly gave them a summary of the events starting from his arrival and leading into the explosion.

"Garnier isn't doing it. Not anymore. He was in the beginning, but our attack on him changed his mind. He's going to try and flee France. There's someone else."

"Is it Isaac de Lorraine?" Athos asked quietly. Porthos shook his head, face a mask.

"Isaac is dead. He was killed this morning in the stables. It's Julienne de Lorraine, the Lady's daughter."

In a lightning flash of intuition, Athos suddenly guessed all that was in his friend's mind. The look on Porthos' face confirmed his suspicions. The eldest musketeer felt his heart fall in despair.

_Oh, Porthos. I'm so sorry. _

They were all silent for a moment. The Gascon's eyes widened in disbelief, and Athos turned to Aramis. The medic's face was drawn in tight lines of worry and sympathy.

"We have orders from the King himself to stop whoever is—" Athos began implacably.

"I know," Porthos interrupted, trying not to think about it.

"I'm sorry," Aramis said softly.

"Me too," Porthos said dully. There wasn't much else to say. The firelight flickered. It was almost fully dark now. The stars were beginning to appear.

D'Artagnan caught sight of the bright star, Old Mother, winking at him. The thought brought an unexpected wave of homesickness for Gascony and a pang of sorrow for his father and the stories of his childhood. An owl hooted somewhere off in the distance.

Time passed. It was an eternity; it was mere minutes. However long it was, Athos finally stood up.

"We have to get going if we're to make it before midnight," the eldest musketeer said stoically.

D'Artagnan stood up and began kicking dirt over their fire. The small flames sputtered and died almost immediately. The shadows flew to greet them and settled over the field. Porthos offered a hand to Aramis who painfully hoisted himself to his feet with a smothered gasp. The sheen of sweat was visible on his brow and he shook despite the warm air.

"We have to go on," Porthos said remorsefully to his friend, who nodded tightly.

"I know."

"Can you?"

Aramis nodded again and hobbled towards his horse.

Porthos watched his friend go bleakly. He jumped when Athos laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Porthos, if there were any other way…" Athos said, regret shining in his clear eyes.

The musketeer sighed and nodded once before moving towards his own horse without a word.

D'Artagnan pulled his horse towards the others and swung into the saddle.

Once they were all seated, Porthos spurred his horse and began traveling back the way they came. The road was dark, and they were guided by the silvery moonlight. The shadows, however plentiful, were nothing compared to the darkness surrounding Porthos' heart.

* * *

They rode well and quickly. Despite the night and their own fatigue, they made good time and reached the estate roughly an hour and half before midnight.

Two guards were stationed at the gate, holding torches and peering into the night. As they approached, Athos smoothly slipped to the front. Porthos pulled his hat down lower over his face and prayed that they didn't look too closely.

"State your business," one of the guards called out in a strong voice.

"We are musketeers," Athos said in a dry, commanding tone. The words, as with every action of the former _comte_, exuded authority. "We have orders from the King."

From inside his cloak, he pulled a piece of parchment and handed it to the guard, who looked it over well before handing it back.

"Apologies. We were told to expect you tomorrow at the earliest," the guard said.

"Circumstances have changed. We need to gain entry now," Athos said calmly.

"Understood," was the last word uttered by the guard before standing to the side and pushed the gate open. The musketeer rode by him, and their horse's steps echoed on the cobbles.

They rode through the estate. Porthos took the lead again, heading towards the Lady's sleeping quarters. The others gazed around. The pale moonlight turned the estate's natural beauty into something stark and deadly. It was exquisite, but it was also dangerous. They all felt it as they rode through the empty streets. The cold breeze picked up, and dust swirled around their horse's legs. Porthos didn't look back or turn around. He was fixing it into his memory for one last time.

They reached the building without any trouble and dismounted. Aramis leaned against the side of the building, and D'Artagnan slung his friend's arm over his own shoulder to support him. Aramis pulled out his pistol with his other hand and nodded his own assent.

Porthos took out his own gun and motioned for Athos to do the same. Slowly they began creeping up the stairs.

* * *

The Lady sat quietly at her vanity, brushing out her long, gray-streaked hair. Her movements were smooth, but her mind was troubled. Caton was still alive, clinging to survival in that stubborn, hard-headed way he approached everything. The killer was still out in the open. And Porthos was gone.

Suddenly furious, she threw her brush down on the wooden table and listened to it clatter. A small knock came at the door.

"Come in," she said quietly, all anger drained out of her as suddenly as it had come.

The pale, beautiful face of Julienne peeked through the crack between the door and the frame, just as she had done when she was a small child.

"May I come in?" she asked, looking anxious not to disturb her mother's peace.

"Yes," Gabrielle said, turning back to her mirror.

Julienne entered. The dress she wore rustled around her legs, and she stood quietly for a moment with her hands behind her back. The knife she carried was concealed in one long sleeve.

"_Maman_, do you think God forgives all our sins?" she asked quietly.

Gabrielle turned to her sharply with a dismayed look.

"Of course He does, Julienne! Always! If we accept Him into our hearts and confess our wrongdoings."

"What if it was something terrible?" Julienne said in a small voice. Her fingers played around the sharp point of the blade behind her back.

Her mother looked at her with an aching look so full of sorrow and empathy that Julienne could have cried.

"I believe that He takes care of us as best He can, _mon ange_," Gabrielle answered. "Nothing is so terrible it could never be forgiven."

She got up to embrace her daughter.

* * *

Porthos crept up the stairs as quietly as he could. All the panic and worry he had felt coming up the stairs had fallen away. In its place was a cold curtain that left only room for a task to be completed. The gun felt heavy in his hand.

He led his friends down the hallway on the second floor. Porthos strode to the Lady's room. Through the door, he heard Julienne's voice. He didn't stop to think. He twisted the knob and shoved the door open. It collided with the wall very loudly in the contained space, and both women inside jumped. Julienne recovered first. Her face changed into something desperate but fearless. Her strong hand gripped the hilt of the knife.

"Step away from the Lady," Porthos said, raising his pistol so it was pointed at Julienne. The others filed slowly into the room and did the same.

"Porthos, what in God's name are you doing?" the Lady shouted angrily, moving instinctively towards her daughter.

"Lady, don't—" Porthos said, but it was too late.

Julienne reached forward and pulled her mother closer, holding the dagger to the older woman's throat.

"Julienne—" her mother choked out before the blade was pressed lightly into the soft skin of her throat.

"I'm sorry, _maman_," Julienne said softly. Her face showed regret, but she didn't stop. "Porthos, you shouldn't have come back."

"Let her go," Athos said flatly, pointing his pistol directly at her. The others fanned out to the sides. None had a clear shot.

"Stay back," Julienne said calmly, although her voice trembled. "I'm in a corner now, and I'll do anything to get out."

"Killing the Lady won't solve anything," D'Artagnan said softly, careful to keep his voice level.

"It will!" Julienne cried, pressing the knife harder. A thin line of blood appeared on the old woman's neck. Gabrielle didn't look afraid, only sorrowful as she waited for her death.

"Isaac is gone now! Leon will inherit everything! My children, I had to make sure they were taken care of. There's so many that would kill them given the opportunity. My mother can't protect them, but I can! This way they can protect themselves! My one chance to ensure that they would have a future!" Julienne was yelling, and tears were rolling freely down her face, but she hadn't lost control yet.

"Put the knife down," Athos said. "We can talk about this."

"It's too late for that," Julienne said, adjusting her grip. Porthos saw her the intention a split second before her hand moved. His hand moved faster.

In a blurred movement almost too fast for Gabrielle's eyes to track, the musketeer brought his gun up and pulled the trigger. The shot was true and struck Julienne high in the left side, the part of her that was the furthest away from the Lady.

The other musketeers blinked instinctively at the gunshot in the small space, but none dared to say anything. Athos could tell without looking at Aramis' pale face that the best marksman in the regiment would have been hard-pressed to make that shot without hitting the Lady.

The beautiful woman immediately released her mother and dropped the knife to cradle her midsection. Athos and Porthos rushed forward simultaneously. Athos caught the Lady, Porthos caught Julienne.

Carefully, he eased her to the floor as her knees gave out. She coughed once, and bright blood appeared on her lips. Porthos took out a handkerchief and wiped her mouth gently.

"Porthos," she whispered, breath incorporeal and light now. "It was for them, always for them. I'm so sorry you were sent here. It w-wasn't supposed to be like this. I never wanted—" she had to break off as a cough rattled through her chest.

"I know," Porthos said gently. The understanding in his voice crushed her. She looked up at him with astonished, shame-filled eyes. He smiled, and she saw the glint of tears in his own. He looked into her bright blue eyes one last time. A tear slipped from the corner of her eye, and then she was gone.

The musketeer gathered her in his arms and raised her slightly as if to embrace her. He brought her hand to his lips and held it there for a long moment. Then he gently set her on the floor. Reaching slowly, he took hold of his pistol. He felt the coldness in his hand, felt the weight of what he had done settle onto his shoulders, and replaced the gun in its holster by his side. Then he stood up.

The Lady watched his face as he turned to look at her and his brothers. His eyes were wet with tears but full of calm acceptance and determination. Athos saw all of this and understood very well. Aramis made the sign of the cross respectfully and silently.

"It is done, Lady," Athos intoned, bowing respectfully. "We grieve with you. There is no thanks to be given for such an act, only sorrow. Our duty demanded action that our hearts will forever regret."

The others bowed, matching their leader. Porthos stared at the floor, not able to meet their eyes.

"Stand and be true," the Lady said in a kind voice although her eyes were brimming with tears. "Your honor remains intact and your loyalty beyond reproach. What has come to pass is regrettable, but you are not to blame."

A certain emphasis crept into her voice and Porthos looked up to see her staring at him proudly and without anger.

"Lady, I beg your forgiveness," he said in a hoarse voice, moving forward. He knelt at her feet and lowered his head, exposing the back of his neck. D'Artagnan drew in a tense breath. It was within her legal right to kill Porthos if she chose to redeem the house de Lorraine. She took a slow step forward and laid a gentle hand on his head. He started in surprise when he felt the soft touch, having braced himself for a blow.

"If it is forgiveness you need, I give it, and gladly," she replied softly as he looked up at her. Gabrielle saw the regret and deep unhappiness in his eyes and understood that it wasn't her forgiveness he needed to quell the sorrow in his heart. "I know you didn't want this."

He nodded, and another teardrop fell from his large brown eyes. He stood and the others moved in behind him, standing tall and true in a line.

"Return to Paris and tell the King what has occurred here today. If you are able," she said, eyeing Aramis' with some unease who leaned against the wall for support. He smiled despite the pain.

"Anything for you, Lady," he said easily, although he was secretly dreading the horse ride back to Paris.

Gabrielle didn't look like she was convinced in the slightest, although she nodded. She went over to a table and wrote something in a beautiful, flowing hand on a creamy piece of parchment. After a few lines, she signed it and folded it over.

"Give this to the King when you arrive. It is my signed statement that what you say is true. A courier will be sent soon after with additional instructions, but this will suffice for the moment."

"Thank you, Lady," D'Artagnan said, taking the paper with a deep bow.

Athos turned to take his leave, and the others followed him. Porthos was the last, and lingered for a moment, before stepping out the door. If he had looked back, he would have seen the tears coursing, at last, down Gabrielle's lined, old face as she wept for her daughter.

* * *

Porthos tried not to think at all as they rode slowly in the direction of Paris. When they reached the same field they had stopped at earlier, they made an unspoken agreement to stop for the night. By now, it was only a few hours from daybreak, but they needed the rest. Aramis was now swaying alarmingly on his horse and his face had gone a gray color from all the jostling while riding. They quietly made camp once more and curled into their bedrolls as a defense against the cold wind blowing from the north. D'Artagnan was asleep almost instantly, in the way of young men. Aramis was too exhausted to stay awake for long. Athos heard his even breathing after a few minutes.

The eldest musketeer lay awake for a long time, looking up. There were only a few stars in the cold sky, and Athos' breath curled up into the night. Porthos hadn't spoken after they left the estate, and it was obvious he needed time alone.

The others had given him space, understanding that he needed to mourn privately. Athos rolled over and looked at Porthos, who stood perhaps a hundred yards from where the others slept. The soldier seemed untouched by the cold or lateness of the hour and stared into the east towards the de Lorraine estate.

Porthos began to speak in a low voice. The wind snatched the words from him and carried them away. Athos couldn't hear them, yet he felt sure that his friend was praying.

Feeling hollow and tight with grief, Athos rolled onto his back so he wouldn't have to watch. After a long time, he heard the almost imperceptible movements of the soldier climbing back into his bedroll.

Athos closed his eyes and fell into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

The exhausted soldiers slept late into the morning, heedless of the sun warming their backs and faces.

D'Artagnan woke up, looked around blearily, and spotted Athos sitting atop his neatly folded bedroll and looking into the remains of the fire. Aramis slept on, and Porthos was nowhere to be found.

"Where's Porthos?" the Gascon asked quietly, mindful of his sleeping comrade.

"Took the horses to a stream a little ways from here," the former _comte_ replied.

"How is he?" D'Artagnan asked, dreading the answer.

Athos shrugged. "He needs time," he repeated the words from last night.

D'Artagnan nodded and waited quietly. After a short time, Porthos came back, leading three of the horses by the bridles. Athos noted with some amusement that Porthos' horse was following him willingly without being led, having obviously missed his owner.

Porthos released the horses, and his own animal nudged the back of his head with its nose.

The musketeer turned around with a small smile and stroked his nose, then moved to his neck. The horse nickered and nudged him again. Porthos scratched under the horse's chin and the animal stretched his neck out further in happiness.

"The stream is clean if you care to wash a little before we press on," the musketeer said, turning back to his friends. His horse remained standing behind him and chewed contentedly on his collar.

"We could use the water to clean Aramis' wound again if we can. Some fresh bandages wouldn't go amiss," Athos said while D'Artagnan snickered at the horse's antics.

"Ah, go on," Porthos said to the horse, pushing his nose away gently and without anger. The animal tossed its great head and went to graze near the others.

"I'll wake him," the Gascon said, walking over to their sleeping comrade.

"Are you alright?" Athos asked quietly, keeping his voice low.

The pain was still in Porthos' face, but he looked less troubled this morning.

"I will be," the musketeer replied with a sigh. The understanding in Athos' eyes hurt too much to look at for long. His gaze roved over their path and the field. The grass swayed gently in the breeze and the bright sky promised a beautiful day.

Athos nodded and walked towards their makeshift sleeping quarters. Porthos followed him after a moment and helped pack their things. Their horses were saddled and homeward bound shortly after.

* * *

Aramis was a little better. The night sleeping on the hard ground had left him sore, and the riding yesterday hadn't helped much. Still, he knew he was improving. Athos looked at him with sympathy as he slumped in the saddle while riding.

"All we have to do is make our appearance to the King and give a short report. Then you can rest in a proper bed."

Aramis chuckled. "That _is_ starting to sound nice. It might be even better if I were to invite a young lady to share it with me."

"I said _rest_," Athos said dryly.

"So did I!" Aramis replied cheekily.

Porthos rolled his eyes and D'Artagnan grinned, both knowing full well that the statement was a bluff. Aramis would be falling into his bed back at the garrison and sleeping alone for the better part of a fortnight while his wound healed.

"We should be getting back shortly after noon," Athos said, gauging the sun.

"A pity. We'll miss lunch," Aramis said tragically. The eldest musketeer's lips twitched.

"They'll give us food anyway," D'Artagnan replied confidently, then frowned. "Right? We'll get food?" he asked uncertainly.

"Yes, they'll give us food. You won't go hungry, D'Artagnan," Porthos answered in a tone of paternal exasperation that they all immediately recognized as a joke.

The Gascon grinned. The day's sunshine was strong on their backs, and the wind tousled their hair. The horses stepped lightly as they made their way.

* * *

They rode into the garrison just after noon, right in sync with Athos' prediction. Treville took a look at their faces and sighed in relief, particularly when he saw Aramis.

"I'm glad you're back. I'll send word to the King that you've returned. You should be able to take a brief rest for now."

They nodded their understanding and made their way towards Aramis' room. Porthos went off to the kitchen to beg some food from Serge, who sent the musketeer back laden with a heavy tray. D'Artagnan was already replacing the bandage on the wounded soldier's back when the door opened.

Athos helped Porthos unwrap the bandages from his shoulder and winced at the sight of the stitching.

"Not the worst stitching I've ever seen. But, really—" Aramis remarked, glancing over to his friend's shoulder.

"I know, I know," Porthos interrupted, sounding resigned. "It couldn't be helped."

Athos rebandaged his shoulder, and the musketeer lifted his arm experimentally. "Thanks."

"Of course," Athos replied quietly.

The food was distributed throughout the room and they all ate ravenously.

"Did any of you know that France was sending explorers to Canada?" Porthos asked through a mouthful of food.

The others looked up at him in surprise.

"Really?" D'Artagnan asked. His eyes were wide.

"A man named Samuel de Champlain is there right now, claiming it for France," Porthos answered.

"I guess the war wasn't exciting enough for him," Aramis scoffed, taking a bite of an apple.

"Best that he left it to the professionals," Athos mused thoughtfully. "Very considerate, really."

There was silence for a moment, then all of them burst out laughing. The joke wasn't that funny, but it felt good to laugh and right in the moment. They were united as four again.

Half an hour later, Treville knocked on the door and said the King was ready for their report.

Porthos' jaw set, and he silently led his brothers towards the main hall of the _palais-royale_.

King Louis sat regally on his throne, trying to look imminently fair and unruffled.

"Ah, my musketeers," the King said fondly. None of the musketeers were fooled by the endearing tone. The impetuous ruler had proven his true character too many times. Still, they all bowed low and respectfully. The Queen sat by his side silently, beaming at the soldiers with considerably more delight.

"Your Majesty, the assassin at the de Lorraine estate has been found and killed," Athos said smoothly, taking up the usual role of diplomat.

"I gave you explicit orders to bring Garnier here, not to kill him!" the King exclaimed angrily. "Really, Treville, your men are becoming overzealous with their work!"

"If I may, Your Majesty," Athos interjected once again, never losing his temper. "Garnier was not behind the most recent attacks as we suspected. In fact, it was Julienne de Lorraine, Madame's daughter."

The King blinked, then snorted obnoxious laughter, oblivious to the grim stares of Treville and the horrified gasp of his wife. When he realized he was laughing by himself, he stopped.

"Are you serious?" he asked, expression aghast with horror. "I used to know Julienne! She would visit the palace when I was young, and we would sometimes play in the gardens together! I simply refuse to believe that she would be capable of something so awful!"

"It was her, Your Majesty," Aramis broke in. "She was holding the Lady at knifepoint when we arrived. It was only through Porthos' extreme skill and by the grace of God that she was defeated. The threat on the house de Lorraine is gone, and they will be able to fulfill their obligations to the crown."

The King turned his gaze on Porthos with extreme interest.

"Is that true?" he asked, fascinated. "Did you really kill Julienne de Lorraine?"

The other musketeers tensed, waiting for his reaction.

Porthos remained stone-faced and didn't react save for a little tightening around his eyes.

"I did what my duty as a musketeer required of me, Your Majesty," the musketeer answered quietly.

"A true patriot!" the king cried, clapping his hands happily. "That is what I call dedication! The sentence was swiftly carried, and all's well. I am not called "Louis the Just" for nothing, am I Treville?"

"Indeed not, Your Majesty," Treville acquiesced quietly.

Queen Anne gazed at the musketeer with a look so sorrowful it pierced into Porthos' heart and he had to look at the rich floor beneath his worn boots to keep from betraying his feelings.

"You have earned my consideration, and I shall remember you henceforth should I need your services in the future," the King said with air of one magnanimously bestowing a great gift onto a humble, somehow low creature.

"You have our loyalty as ever, Your Majesty," Athos said, before sweeping into a low bow. The others bowed in tandem, and Porthos forced himself to bend at the waist for an acceptable amount of time. Louis smiled benevolently down at them before dismissing them with a fond wave of his hand.

They walked out of the _palais-royale_ and back into the sunshine. Treville let out his breath in a sigh.

"That could have gone a lot worse," Aramis tried to say bracingly.

"Indeed, but it could have gone better," Treville replied. "Go back to the garrison. There's plenty of time to rest now that you're back. Aramis, you're off provisional duty until your back heals enough for you to go back to work. That's at least a week, and I won't brook any argument about it, either!" He said when the handsome musketeer opened his mouth to protest vehemently.

"You two are also on conditional stand down for now. Think of it as a preventative measure for security," he continued, pointing at D'Artagnan and Athos. "I'd rather have you keeping Aramis company in exile than trying to sneak him into duty before he's fit."

D'Artagnan ducked his head sheepishly, but Athos simply shrugged and nodded to the Captain.

"Porthos, you've been through a lot. This mission was anything but easy, but you came through it and did what needed to be done. I also want you to take leave for at least a few days. Rest and heal, all of you."

He paused and looked them all full in the face before continuing.

"You have done a great service to France, and for the King. I want you to know that I'm very proud of you."

They looked at each other with little smiles, all except Porthos who still looked far too serious.

"Dismissed," Treville said kindly. They nodded to him and walked back to their rooms.

Porthos entered his room, pausing in the doorway. Dust swirled through the air as the door opened, and he looked at the few belongings he could call his own.

He began unpacking and slipped back into his customary leathers. Despite the pull on his shoulder, it felt better. He slipped the pauldron back on. After he had replaced all his things and shaken the dust out of the covers, he felt in his pocket. His fingers encountered smooth stone.

Porthos took it out and stared at the earring, remembering the white flash of her throat as she laughed and how she had danced. He suddenly wished fervently that he had asked her to dance, the night of the explosion and the party. He looked at it for a long time before setting it carefully on his nightstand.

A knock on the door made him jump. He answered it, and Athos stood there with his customary calm demeanor.

"We were thinking of going to a tavern tonight for dinner. Would you care to join us?" he asked carefully. Not to celebrate, but to reflect. Possibly to drink enough so they could forget.

Porthos swallowed. "Not tonight. I can't."

Athos nodded, unsurprised. He turned to go.

"Are you going to do the same tomorrow night?" Porthos asked suddenly.

Athos' familiar look of bemusement mixed with light self-derision was all the answer he needed.

"I'll join you then," Porthos said, feeling the smile touch his mouth.

Athos nodded again, looking somewhat pleased now as he left his friend in peace.

Porthos sat quietly at his little table for most of the night, looking at the beautiful earring and remembering how she had looked up at him in the last moments before her death.

His eyes wanted to weep for her, and he let the slow tears fall in the isolation of his room. She had been lost and almost as afraid as Porthos had been at the estate. His heart ached for her now, understanding how _very alone _she had been.

Early the next morning, before most of the garrison was stirring, he walked to the waterfront where the Seine met the harbors. It was mostly deserted at this hour. The day had yet to start.

The musketeer pulled the precious stone from his pocket, memorized the shade so as to keep the color of her eyes.

"I know we came from two different worlds, but I would have talked to you," Porthos said to the stone, imaging her smile. "I would have told you that there was another way. The thoughts that drove you to it were an obsession, and I know what that's like. Sometimes it's bad to wish for something too hard; it drives away the luck."

He paused, then continued, feeling the words strangely appropriate.

"I don't know how to explain it, but an old man I knew in the Court once said it was like wishing for water for crops. You can pray and shout and rave all you want, but eventually you just have to wait for the rain."

He squeezed it once in his hand, then flung it far into the river. He watched the glint as it hit the water, then lost sight as it sunk into the depths.

He took the long way back to the garrison and walked slowly. When he arrived, he was greeted by the sleepy gazes of his friends and yawns of their musketeers as they lined up for muster call.

"Everything alright?" Athos intoned as they stood quietly in the line. D'Artagnan blinked owlishly and looked across the eldest musketeer's chest at his friend.

"It is now," Porthos answered, and smiled.


End file.
